Portal

The light was the worst part. It wasn't the miserable 3:00 AM display on the clock, which screamed a time usually reserved for adventurers returning home or demons plotting world domination. No, it was the harsh, unflinching glare of the fluorescent tubes—an eternal, soul-crushing dirge that convinced the brain it was perpetually 3:00 PM on a Tuesday, guaranteeing maximum, inescapable dread. I was hunched in Cubicle 42-B at the Takashi Accounting Group, bathed in this hostile interrogation light. My task: reconciling three months of outsourced IT expenses. This job, calculating tax liability and wading through mountains of pointless invoices, was the absolute antithesis of excitement, offering only lousy hours and pay that ensured I had to keep showing up. It felt exactly like being a Level 1 character—except instead of a training field, I was stuck permanently in the lobby of the highest-difficulty dungeon imaginable: Corporate America.

I tried to mentally catalog my skills, a bitter amusement my only defense against the crushing boredom. Intermediate Accounting (Level 7), serviceable but dull. Basic Spreadsheet Management (Level 9), equally pedestrian. And the one true outlier, the skill I poured years into developing: Advanced Procrastination (Level MAX). That skill was why I was still stuck reconciling the Q4 expenses when everyone else had fled hours ago. I always waited until the very last, agonizing minute, because action felt cheaper when done under duress.

I closed my eyes, retreating into the only place that made sense: the world of fantasy. I was homesick for a place that didn't exist. A place of high-stakes quests, actual skill points, and companions who might occasionally try to lecture me about teamwork, but never, ever about GAAP compliance. I envisioned the Adventurers Guild, a place where people were compensated for effort and where the biggest problem was a Giant Toad, not systemic economic failure.

Instead, my reality was defined by an intricate financial trap. I wanted to quit, desperately. My existence felt like a badly scripted, low-budget Isekai where the hero was transported to a land of 40-hour workweeks and chronic inflammation. But quitting was impossible. It was hard to find a new job, and the money was essential—not just for rent, but to support my real, pressing need: the gacha addiction. Every time I saw a guaranteed SSR banner, my resolve weakened, and my savings account wept. If only I could monetize my existence elsewhere, this life wouldn't feel so brutally efficient at crushing hope.

My deep dive into self-pity was instantly interrupted by the sound of approaching doom.

"Yamamoto!"

Kenji Tanaka (48), my short, balding, and relentlessly miserable supervisor, stormed toward my cube. He was the main reason I wanted to quit, the man who embodied the relentless, unyielding pressure of this world. He was, in my estimation, a man utterly consumed by loneliness and anxiety, a flaw he projected onto the world as mean-spirited demands for order and perfection. He was the corporate mini-boss, clinging to the only semblance of control he had left: his schedule, his spreadsheets, and his worn leather briefcase.

The irony was that we were bound by mutual dysfunction. He kept me because he couldn't fire me—the company couldn't afford a replacement who would work for my lousy wage—and I stayed because, frankly, the gacha odds were better here than in an actual dungeon.

He paused by my cube, his breath ragged, smelling faintly of stale coffee and pure, unadulterated fear of the future. "You're staring at the wall again, dreaming about those childish video games! I need those quarterly estimates finalized now."

I sighed, clicking back to the invoice screen. "Just thinking, Kenji. I think I’d have a better time fighting an Ogre Lord than dealing with the compliance department this week."

This casual comparison always struck a nerve, likely because it reminded him of his own impotence. My inner monologue, however, was far more specific. In the mobile game I was currently mainlining—Gacha Quest: Eternal Grind—there was a recurring level boss, an orc, who looked quite a bit like Mr. Tanaka, funny enough. The boss, a hulking brute, demanded excessive tribute and had the same furious, panicked posture when his hit points dropped. It was a private comparison, "The Orc of Accounting," that allowed me to maintain my sanity.

He glared at me with what I internally cataloged as a Level 5 Glare of Executive Disapproval. "This isn't a game, Yamamoto. This is reality, and it will destroy you if you don't treat it with respect! Focus!"

He stalked back to his private office. I watched him go, noting how his anxiety made his movements jerky and inefficient—clearly, he needed to put some points into Movement Speed and maybe take a course in Calming Breath Technique.

The sheer injustice of it all—that my expertise in fictional combat systems and high-level procrastination was useless, yet his mastery of antiquated financial law was essential—was galling. I felt the sharp, relatable shame of knowing my Level MAX Advanced Procrastination was hindering me even here, proving my past laziness was my most debilitating, real-world curse.

I looked at the clock again. 3:00 AM. A quiet Tuesday morning, a perfectly safe time. The most dangerous thing in my immediate vicinity was my own caffeine deficit.

Something—anything—has to happen, I thought, closing my eyes and making the wish one last, desperate time. I want a world where my existence isn't defined by this corporate cube, a world where the stakes are quantifiable, the rewards are commensurate with the effort, and where the biggest threat is clearly labeled.

A moment later, the lights began to die. The universe was about to grant my wish, but certainly not in the easy, helpful way I expected. My ultimate isekai journey was about to begin, and I was stuck with the last person on Earth I wanted as my partner.

The world shattered. A crackling, glowing rift—a pure, shimmering rectangle of impossible light—tore through the wall adjacent to Tanaka’s office. It looked exactly like the portals in the genre, confirming every trope I’d ever loved. The vortex widened, generating a monstrous suction that devoured file folders and scattered papers.

"Yamamoto! Are you sleeping?! Get up!" Tanaka’s voice was a high-pitched whine of pure, unadulterated stress. He stormed toward me, his face a horrifying mask of rage and anxiety. He was furious that I was late with the deliverables, and understandably very angry that I had fallen asleep at my post.

"I need those estimates now. This is serious, Yamamoto. If this filing is late, the penalty alone will cost the firm more than your annual salary—"

"I know, I know. More than my annual salary," I muttered, trying to look busy. I focused on his appearance, the thinning hair and furious scowl, and made the mental note: Definitely Orc-like today.

"You're pathetic, Yamamoto. You have no drive. I've considered firing you countless times," he hissed, the threat of my imminent unemployment just as real as my need for gacha currency. "I can't believe I wasted my time training someone so lazy."

Before I could muster a witty retort, the lights began to die. Not flicker, but violently throb, casting the conference room in strobing, impossible shadows. A high-pitched sound—like a thousand fax machines screaming in unison—filled the air.

"What in the hell?!" Tanaka shrieked, instantly scrambling for the emergency light in his briefcase.

"NO! NO, NO, NO! I need to be here for the compliance review! My whole life depends on rigid, dependable systems!" Tanaka screamed, clutching his leather briefcase as if it were a shield against interdimensional travel.

We tumbled through the light, our fate sealed not by destiny, but by being forced to work late.