Sin Nombre

I remembered everything now.

In the darkness of the cold body bag—a plastic, crinkling sack—I kept fumbling around for a zipper. Nervous shaking kept my fingers unsteady, desperate to see where I was. The only thing I could hear outside was an old man's rigid voice:

"Aizawa—looks like he's awake in there."

"Should we fetch Yuna?" Another, younger man replied.

"No. She'll walk herself in here like the hound she is. Don't underestimate her."

Wh-Who's talking out there? I started wondering if it was safer inside the body bag, or outside.

Both mysterious men continued deliberating, until the old man took an authoritative tone.

"It's time. Release him."

"Yessir."

I heard a zipper rustle and be pulled down. Sudden brightness made me squint like a vampire exposed to sunlight, before my blurred vision showed a ceiling overhead. An antique, rusted chandelier gazed down at me that swayed ominously back and forth.

"Wh-What's going on?" I muttered, confused.

"Sit up," an old man's voice commanded.

With no other choice, I propped myself up and took in my surroundings: a small, cramped room choking from the smell of cigarette smoke. Trace chandelier light shone on withered walls and rotted floorboards, while only a single window previewed the night outside.

I coughed into my arm. I was naked from the waist up, with just a loincloth covering important bits. But otherwise, I'd retained my past life's toned body I'd built from exercising often.

"You're probably confused, aren'tcha, kid?"

"Huh?" I turned towards an office table overflowing with clutter. Behind stacks of paper was an old Italian mob boss, donned in a tailored suit and smoking a cigar thicker than his thumb. He wore gold rings on each finger, though he himself appeared dainty and wilted. His slicked-back hair had streaks of gray that highlighted bags under both eyes.

Another mobster wearing a fedora emerged from the shadows. "Sir. Should I inform him about what transpired?"

"I'll do it this time. Got some notes right here straight from the goddess herself."

"What?" I almost stood up. "You know Angel?"

"Angel?" The boss raised a brow. "Our goddess has no name. That's her whole gimmick of being the Nameless Goddess."

Whether or not she had a name didn't matter, as much as what she mentioned about me. I still had no clue what kind of world I'd spawned into, or what my assigned "role" would be. Did I enter the equivalent of Heaven? Or somewhere else? Questions swirled in my head to the point I almost felt dizzy.

"If ya' puke on the floor, you're gonna clean it up," the mob boss said. He raised another cigar to his lips then lit it by snapping his fingers.

"W-Woah!" I pointed. "Fire! Fire just came out of your hand!"

"Eh? You didn't know there's magic in this world?"

"No!"

"Wowza, you're more lost than I thought then! Bahaha!"

Nothing made sense. Was this one of those isekai worlds I'd heard getting popular recently? Where you respawn into a fantasy land full of magic and fairies? Those were real?

All I could do was sit there in stunned silence.

The old mobster puffed out another smoke cloud. "Anyways, yeah. You've been reborn into a fantasy world named Sin Nombre—mostly medieval European themed, but influxes of outsiders have started changing the culture. Gentrification, basically."

"Outsiders means others reincarnated like me, right?"

"Yes, chiefly from Japan. The Nameless Goddess picks who she likes then rebirths them with a specific 'role' that we call classes here."

Ah. Angel did say something about assigning me a role. "What's mine then?"

Papers rustled as the mob boss examined some notes, squinting as if having difficulty reading. "Jin Aizawa—says here you're now deigned an NPC."

The fedora mobster standing behind me chuckled. But I was still shocked—confused—to care.

"N-P . . . C?" I said. "Isn't that something from video games?"

"This is a gaming world, champ," the boss chortled, puffing out smoke. "Or at least, the closest thing to gaming possible."

What the heck did that ballerina plunge me into? I remembered the faint memory of a girl who seemed to be hiding melancholy. Underneath that bratty, tutu exterior was someone weighed down by her own responsibilities; someone that knew her decisions could impact an entire world. But who was Angel really? And why did she send me here?

The mob boss put down his papers and brandished a knife, letting it glimmer. "See? Everyone that's reborn into this world must fight. But our goddess is merciful; she wouldn't assign someone she'd judged as a pacifist into combat roles. That's why there's no shame in being an NPC—a class not suited for combat at all."

"Huh?" I said. "Give me a weapon and I'll fight too."

"You don't understand. NPC's are inherently inept. Your magical circuits fry fast and have almost no output at all."

"Magical circuits?"

Then I heard footsteps of dress shoes behind me. The fedora mobster had a threatening gleam in his eyes as he slightly unsheathed his sword. Dark shadows leaked out like a miasma of evil until the sword was sheathed back.

"Observe my personal guard back there," the boss said. "He's someone that reincarnated into this world as an Assassin-class. Strong, definitely, because the goddess gave him an appropriate role. There's four other classes in total, but I'll let my secretary Yuna explain those later. I gotta finish reading these notes the goddess sent us."

My brow furrowed. I still had questions, though speaking out-of-turn towards someone who might become my new boss didn't seem optimal.

The boss mobster kept sifting through pages, almost like an interviewer reading resumes. "Ah. Jin Aizawa—says here you were a journalist in your past life, correct?"

"Yes."

"What kinds of duties did you perform?"

"Investigative. Field work. Interviews. Parsing watchdog reports, public records, anonymous tips, that sort of thing."

"Write articles?"

"Desk work, yeah."

"Hmmm . . . " He rubbed his chin. "Sounds like the Nameless Goddess judged you well if she sent you to us."

"What do you mean?"

"Just swivel around."

I did as instructed, and turned my head around the room. Dark corners lurked where light couldn't reach, but framed along those walls were what appeared to be newspapers. And smaller frames displayed tabloid covers faded from time.

The boss shoved his smoking cigar into an ashtray. "You're inside Borsalino—a media company that publishes Sin Nombre's hottest gossip. And I'm its founder, Borsalino. Sorry for the late introduction, haha!"

"Eh?" A stunned expression spread. I'd harbored suspicions, but the confirmation had me wobbling up to my feet. "So that's my fate? Working as another journalist?"

"Hey, ya' make it sound like we're swimming in money. Gossip barely pays the bills. I wouldn't normally hire you, but the church sent us a stipend to take you under my wing. That's how the Nameless Goddess introduces NPCs to society here."

"Because I can't fight, I just get sent wherever?"

Borsalino laughed. "The goddess' will is executed through the church. That's where we picked your body up from earlier, actually; we've been waiting for you to stop sleeping ever since."

With overwhelming information, I stared towards the floor to process things: I'd died trying to save a drowning girl, met a goddess in another world, and then finally reincarnated inside the church of some fantasy world? Was all this supposed to be punishment? Or reward?

Borsalino scooted back and stood from his chair. The mobster walked with a cane, as if suffering from an old injury, as he admired newspapers along the walls. "You don't have to work here if you don't want to, but that'd be rejecting the goddess' help. And since there's no welfare state here, you'd be all on your own out there."

"No, thanks for this opportunity." I bowed my head. "I'll do whatever to earn my keep."

"Good answer. My secretary will finish your induction."

A knock on the room's door rang—two feminine taps. All our heads turned to see a woman walk herself in and close the door behind her.

High-heels clanged against floorboards as she strutted over. But she wasn't trying to be sexy, she just was: long, black hair tied into a ponytail fully exposed the frame of designer glasses. Behind rectangular lenses were eyes—hawk-like, with a gaze intense enough to make most men look away first. And glossy lips breathed professionalism, drawing attention towards her curve-hugging suit.

She didn't even glance at me while she walked by, uninterested.

"Ah! Yuna!" Borsalino grinned. "You came right on time."

"I said don't address me by first name." She spoke in an irate tone.

"It's such a pretty name though! Fitting for my personal secretary."

"I'm not your secretary either."

The old mobster just kept cackling as he ventured back towards his desk and sat down. "No matter. That half-naked gentleman behind you will be your new partner starting today. Make friends."

I swear I heard a grumble before she turned around, staring at me with annoyed eyes. Her silver irises had a piercing effect that made me step back.

"E-Erm, let's work well together." I bowed my head. "My name is Jin Aizawa."

There wasn't a single response until she gave the quickest, slightest bow. "Tsukino. Yuna. Pleasure to meet you."