Game Over: Fatal Drink

My name is Ren Kurosawa, and this is my story.
I’m a high school student, addicted to energy drinks, a virgin by choice (mine, not theirs), and living a perfect life… but one that’s terribly boring.
I get good grades without trying too hard, I’m decent at sports though I don’t really care about them, and I’ve got the kind of face that gets attention without doing anything special.
Oh, and I’ll probably die before I turn twenty.
Not in an epic fight.
Not from being stabbed in the chest by a tsundere heroine.
But from drinking a suspicious can with a sexy demon girl on it.
And the worst part is…
I’d do it again.

This is what happened…
Late afternoon. School’s over.
I walked out of the classroom with my shirt half-untucked and my tie dangling like it was just some decorative accessory instead of part of the uniform. I had my bag slung over one shoulder, carrying it like every cool anime guy who acts like he has no real problems.
Spoiler: I do have problems.
But right now? I couldn’t care less.
The hallways were packed with students doing what students do after class—shouting, running, pushing, and probably taking selfies while blocking the way like glitched-out NPCs.
I moved through them like a crowd-dodging pro.
Yeah, I’ve got talent even for that.
Some people looked at me.
Not to sound narcissistic, but it was obvious.
"That’s Kurosawa..."
"Still got that 'I don’t give a damn' face, huh?"
"Why does he always look so chill?"
Because I am, basically.
It’s not rocket science.
As if I cared what they thought...
My priorities were clear:
Step one: hit the store.
Step two: buy my fifth energy drink of the day.
Step three: lock myself in my room and game until my corneas melt.
Solid plan.
I stepped outside and the sun hit me straight in the face.
Almost melted right there. But hey, it looked dramatic.
My green eyes glinted for a second, and I bet someone in slow-mo caught the tiny golden ring in my right eye.
Yeah, I have heterochromia. No, it’s not cosplay.
I was born this way. Cry about it, average otaku.
As I crossed the courtyard, a group of girls stared at me and whispered.
Not gonna say it made me uncomfortable, but seriously, be a little more subtle.
I gave them a casual glance.
…Too flat.
And I kept walking like nothing happened.
Point for me. Zero for public decency.
The city was the same as always.
Wires crisscrossing the sky, motorcycle engines roaring, people glued to their phones too clueless to avoid collisions. Business as usual.
I turned the corner and there it was—
my usual store.
My sanctuary.
My holy land of sugar and caffeine.

"Hey, Ren! More of those drinks again? You’re gonna explode one day," said the cashier with a face that screamed “I don’t get your existence.”
Just sell and shut up, old man, I thought. Out loud, I just said:
"You know how I am."
I walked straight to the fridge like Pavlov’s dog.
The cans sparkled, calling out to me. My babies.
I knew every one of them by heart.
Original or tropical?
That was the question.
But then…
I saw it.
A completely black can.
White letters: DIABOLIC SOUL.
In the center, a red heart wrapped in thorns.
And behind it… a sexy demon girl. Too sexy.
Holding a trident. Stabbing the heart. With style. With class. With… perfect boobs?
"What kind of hentai energy drink design is this?"
I turned it around. The back was written in some language I couldn’t recognize.
Probably satanic. Or Russian. Or both.
Where did this come from? Who designed it?
And why is it speaking directly to my soul?
…and the demon girl… damn.
She’s hot.
I blushed.
Not on purpose. I have weaknesses, okay?
I grabbed the can decisively.
"How much is this one?"
The guy looked at it like I’d just brought him bottled cocaine.
"No idea where that came from… No barcode, but I’ll sell it for the usual price."
"Works for me."
Paid.
White plastic bag.
Epic exit.

My house is big.
So big that the echo is the closest thing I get to a family conversation.
Thanks to my mom and dad—high-ranking execs at some AI company that’ll probably go full Skynet one day—I’ve got everything I need.
Except love.
And attention.
And decent food that’s not frozen.
"I’m home," I said out of habit.
Obviously, no one replied.
I went up to my room.
My safe zone.
High-end PC. Triple monitors.
RGB gaming chair.
Mini fridge full of drinks.
Waifu posters.
Trash bin that looked like a graveyard of empty cans.
The half-hidden toilet paper roll behind the desk isn’t just for show.
Look… I’m a teenager, okay?
I have needs too.
CLUNK.
I dropped my bag and pulled out the mystery can like I’d just scored a legendary loot drop.
Set it on my desk.
Booted up the PC. Put on my headset.
Launched White Ops 3, my favorite shooter.
And, as expected…
I got killed in under ten seconds.
"What the hell?! I didn’t even load my weapon!"
Ahhh… this is the life.
Here, I’m not the cool guy. Here, I’m a noob.
And I love it.
The only place where people insult me without filters.
Almost like having friends. But more honest.

Hours passed.
Night fell.
I leaned back in my chair and looked at the black can.
Still there. Watching me.
"Your time has come, Diabolic Soul."
PSSSSHHH.
A cold hiss escaped the can.
It gave me chills.
I took a long gulp.
GLUG GLUG GLUG…
"Aaahhh… this is way too good!"
Another gulp.
GLUG GLUG GLUG…
And suddenly… empty.
"Okay, I need a thousand of these. I’m gonna collect them. I’m gonna—"
CLANK.
"AGHHH! What the hell…?!"
A sharp pain hit my chest like someone was stabbing me from the inside with a red-hot iron rod.
I doubled over.
My heart was racing.
Cold sweat. Eyes twitching.
Is this a heart attack?
Am I actually dying from a sexy anime demon drink?
I collapsed.
Breathing was hard.
My vision blurred.
The room spun.
Next to me, the damn can.
Glowing under the monitor light…
like it was laughing at me.
One last breath.
One final heartbeat.
Darkness.
And there I was.
Lying on my bedroom floor.
Alone.
Next to the damn can.
Still glowing under the monitor…
like it was mocking me.
And that’s how I died.
Sad, right?
Well, it’s not like I expected anything better.
Maybe this beats getting run over by a truck, right?