My natural clock woke myself up. The sleep I was getting made me a bit suspicious of the time. Rolling over, I slowly furrowed my brows, noticing the idealic looking comforter and pillows I was met with.
'Whose bed is this?' I thought, dragging my fingers across silk sheets that definitely weren't mine—unless poverty had suddenly become luxurious. The scent of cherry blossoms drifted through an open window, which was weird since my apartment smelled like instant noodles and existential dread. Sunlight hit my face at that perfect golden angle you only see in studio animations, and I instinctively shielded my eyes with a hand that felt... smaller.
A mirror on the far wall caught my attention, and when I stumbled toward it, the reflection nearly knocked me backward.
I looked younger, first year of highschool young, but I also didn't look like my old self at all.
You know that trope in anime where a character in an anime has dark skin and nobody knows if they're meant to be black or Japanese because the art style makes everyone ambiguously melanated? That's exactly what stared back at me—except my hair was this ridiculous shade of raven black and violet eyes that definitely didn't exist in my old world unless you were either rich or clinically insane. I reached up, half-expecting to feel the texture of a cheap wig, but no, those strands were attached, silky, and annoyingly perfect, like something out of a shampoo commercial.
I was also perfectly built, kind of like Captain America, with his physic to match.
I was simply put, handsome. That was the only way to describe it—not in an arrogant way, but in the same detached manner you'd note a painting in a museum. Like my existence had been crafted by committee, every feature optimized for maximum aesthetic impact. Even the way my borrowed muscles flexed under smooth skin felt calculated, as if I'd been designed for a specific audience.
A sharp inhale—did this body even have asthma?—and I turned toward the bedroom door, half expecting some bubbly childhood friend to burst in with a dramatic "Okaeri!"
Instead, the door creaked open to reveal... a huskie. Not a person, just a massive, fluffy dog with heterochromatic eyes—one blue, one gold—staring at me with the lazy judgment of a creature who'd seen this exact scenario before. It yawned, pink tongue curling, then dropped a folded uniform at my feet like a butler delivering the morning paper. The blazer sleeve bore an embroidered crest I didn't recognize, but the fabric was pristine, as if ironed by someone who genuinely enjoyed ironing.
"Thanks?" I muttered, half-expecting the dog to reply. It didn't, just trotted out with a dismissive flick of its tail. Classic anime logic—canine servants, zero explanations. I picked up the uniform, and a slip of paper fluttered out: *"Remember, it is your first day of highschool as your mother and I have to be away to work in America."* The handwriting was elegant, practiced, the kind you'd see on a wedding invitation.
"Guess we're also following the trope where the protagonist's parents are never hone, huh?" I muttered, pressing the uniform against my chest. The fabric smelled faintly of lavender—like someone had taken extra care to ensure my tragic anime backstory came with pleasant aromatherapy. A quick glance around the room revealed more unsettling detail: nothing here was personal.
I don't mean to be dramatic, but the entire room looked like a five star hotel room designed by a committee that only watched slice-of-life anime—everything was pristine, coordinated, and completely devoid of personality. The bookshelf held exactly seventeen volumes, all spines perfectly aligned, and not a single crease in their covers. Even the desk had that eerie, untouched quality, like it existed solely for the protagonist to dramatically slump over during a late-night studying montage.
It was strange...
Why was I so calm about this? Shouldn't I be screaming, or at least questioning the physics of waking up in someone else's—possibly fictional—body? But the longer I stood there, the more my panic dissolved into eerie acceptance, like my new brain came pre-installed with anime protagonist zen. Maybe this was what shock felt like—not the Hollywood hyperventilating kind, but the quiet, surreal detachment of watching your own life from the third person.
The huskie returned, this time with a bento box clamped gently in its jaws. It dropped it onto the bed with a thud that suggested it contained enough food for three grown men—or one teenage anime protagonist. I knelt, scratching behind his ears, and felt the dog lean into my touch with the exaggerated satisfaction of a background character written purely for comedic relief. "Arigatou," I said, not wanting to be rude despite everything.
Wait, was that god damn Japanese?
Fuck it, why not at this point?
I was never the nicest guy, but I liked to think I wasn't an asshole—still, the dog's reaction made me question that. The second I said "arigatou," its ears twitched like I'd just quoted Nietzsche at a kindergarten. One blue eye narrowed suspiciously while the gold one widened in what I could only describe as canine existential crisis.
He was so fluffy I could die. Not metaphorically—I mean if the density of his fur suddenly inverted, I'd be crushed under the sheer weight of his aesthetic appeal. The dog tilted his head, that one skeptical blue eye tracking my every move like I'd just confessed to stealing his favorite chew toy. Then, with the slow, deliberate grace of a shoujo love interest, he leaned forward and licked my nose. It was wet. It was cold. It was, objectively, disgusting. And yet, I felt my new, anime-approved heart do a backflip.
"Okay, fine, you win," I muttered, scratching under his chin with the precision of someone who'd clearly spent too much time watching pet ASMR videos. His tail thumped against the floor in a rhythmic *thwack-thwack-thwack* that sounded suspiciously like the beat drop in a J-pop song. "What, you want me to say it again? Arigatou? Arigatou, you little drama queen—happy now?"
The effect was instantaneous. His ears perked up like I'd just announced free bacon for life, and suddenly I had at least 60 pounds of pure, ecstatic husky trying to climb into my lap like I was his personal throne.
He seemed so unused to it—my words, my affection—like this body had been programmed to ignore him in favor of more dramatic pursuits, like brooding near windows or dramatically adjusting nonexistent glasses. His tail wagged so hard his entire rear end swayed, knocking over a tastefully minimalist vase that shattered with a sound suspiciously like a Wilhelm scream. Neither of us moved to clean it up. "You're really leaning into the anime tropes, huh?" I muttered, watching ceramic shards twinkle like they'd been sprinkled with digital effects. The dog responded by flopping onto his back, paws curled in the air like a cartoon villain awaiting belly rubs.
I obliged, because what else do you do when a supernatural huskie demands worship? His fur was softer than logic allowed, each strand practically glowing under the morning light.
A sharp *ding* from the bedside table shattered the moment—an alarm clock shaped like a mochi, its digital face blinking 6:30 AM with alarming cheer.
"Right. School," I muttered, as if those words explained anything. The dog rolled upright, shaking out his fur with unnecessary drama—like we hadn't just spent five minutes in a petting montage. He nudged the bento box toward me again, this time with a pointed stare that screamed *"Eat, idiot, before you pass out during the opening credits."*
I flipped the lid open and recoiled. Inside wasn't just food—it was a culinary masterpiece arranged to perfection as all anime food was.
God, I already knew I was going to be such a fat ass in this world too.
The bento was a kaleidoscope of colors—sakura-shaped tamagoyaki, glistening teriyaki salmon arranged like a fan, even the damn rice was molded into a cartoon bear's face with seaweed eyes that judged me for hesitating. I poked the bear's cheek with my chopsticks. "This is harassment," I informed the dog, who responded by rolling his eyes (actual, literal eye-roll, complete with an anime *shiiiiing* sound effect I swear I didn't imagine).
I took a bite, and flavor detonated in my mouth like someone had strapped a bomb to my taste buds. The salmon melted into sweetness, the rice was inexplicably fluffier than clouds, and even the fucking pickled radish had layers. "Who made this? Gordon Ramsay's anime cousin?" The huskie yawned, stretching his paws in a way that suggested *obviously*, because in this world, even the background characters had Michelin-starred talents hidden under their tropes.
A chime echoed through the room—not a phone notification, but an actual, physical wind chime hanging by the window, despite there being zero breeze. It tinkled out the opening notes of some idol group's song I'd never heard but somehow already knew all the lyrics to. The dog perked up, nudging a glossy pamphlet toward me with his nose. *Shujin Academy: Where Tomorrow's Brightest Begin!* screamed the headline, complete with a CG-rendered school that looked like everyone's dream college, except it was just high school.
"Subtle," I muttered, flipping through pages that smelled suspiciously like fresh ink despite being dated three years prior. The uniform fit like it had been tailored by angels—snug at the shoulders, loose at the wrists, with just enough room in the pants to imply I'd someday grow into a shoujo love interest. The mirror confirmed I looked like a rejected visual novel protagonist, all sharp angles and soft lighting, even my bedhead artfully tousled as if arranged by a team of stylists.
I ran a hand through my stupidly perfect hair—no gel, no effort, just genetics (or divine intervention?)—and caught the huskie's reflection smirking at me. "Oh, don't start," I warned, tossing the pamphlet onto the bed. It landed with a *fwip* sound that shouldn't exist. The dog responded by dramatically flopping onto his side, one paw covering his eyes like he couldn't bear to witness my tragic lack of self-awareness.
The breakfast bento box sat finished, wiped clean with the precision of someone who respected food too much to leave even a grain of rice behind. The huskie—whose name I still didn't know, because of course anime logic demanded mysterious pets.
He went out of the room, I figured my best bet was to follow him—though I was half convinced he'd lead me into a secret dungeon or something equally ridiculous.
Instead, I found myself being lead to another huskie, she was slightly smaller, her fur was curled in beautiful waves, and she had piercing yellow eyes—like twin suns judging my soul.
She was holding my lunch bento box between her teeth, tail wagging with such enthusiasm it blurred into a white crescent moon behind her. "Let me guess—you're the designated lunch delivery service?" I asked, crouching to her level. She dropped the bento into my outstretched hands with a proud *thunk*, then immediately headbutted my knee, demanding pets with the urgency of a pop star's fanclub president.
Her fur smelled like vanilla and thunderstorms, an impossible combination that somehow made perfect sense in this world. "Arigatou," I murmured, scratching under her chin with the same reverence one might reserve for handling ancient artifacts. Her entire body vibrated with delight, a high-pitched whine escaping her throat—the kind of sound that could only be transcribed in manga as "kyun!"—before she suddenly froze, golden eyes widening like I'd just recited the periodic table backward.
"Uh... did I say it wrong?" I asked, pausing mid-scratch. She responded by abruptly sitting upright, ears twitching in a Morse code of disbelief, as if my basic gratitude had shattered some unspoken fourth wall. A beat passed—then she launched herself at me, knocking me flat on my back with the force of a tsundere's poorly timed hug. Her tongue swiped across my cheek in three rapid licks, each one accompanied by an exaggerated *mwah* sound effect that definitely shouldn't exist in nature.
"Okay, okay—I get it, you're welcome!" I laughed, pushing her off with the same ease you'd shoo away an overzealous cloud. She landed with a *plop*, tail wagging so hard her entire hindquarters swayed like a metronome set to maximum chaos. The first huskie—Mr. Judgmental Heterochromia—strolled over and sniffed at her like she'd committed some grave social faux pas.
She responded by playfully nipping his ear, igniting a slapstick wrestling match that sent them tumbling into a sunbeam, their fur catching the light like a fluffy filter had been slapped over reality.
I watched them, chopsticks dangling from my mouth, half-expecting a narrator to chime in with *"And thus, the day begins!"* Instead, the sunlight shifted—because of course it did—casting the hallway in golden-hour perfection as I stepped into polished loafers that somehow fit without ever being tried on. The front door loomed ahead like a checkpoint in a visual novel, its wooden frame slightly warped in that charmingly imperfect way anime backgrounds always were.
A note fluttered from the shoe shelf—*"Take the path by the cherry blossoms, darling!"*—in the same elegant script as before. The dogs suddenly materialized on either side of me, their tails synchronizing into a rhythmic *thump-thump* against the hardwood.
"Don't worry, I'll see you two later." The words slipped out before I realized how naturally they came—like muscle memory from a life I'd never lived. The huskies exchanged glances that somehow conveyed sarcasm better than most humans could manage, then trotted off with synchronized tail flicks that screamed *"Sure you will."*
The moment I stepped outside, cherry blossom petals rained down in slow motion, each one drifting at cinematic angles, as if the universe had hired a dedicated wind machine operator. The neighborhood stretched before me like a Studio Ghibli backdrop—pristine cobblestone paths, houses with roofs slightly too steep, and at least three stray cats lounging in sunbeams with the lazy entitlement of minor nobility.
Thankfully my high school uniform had a name tag with it:
Akio Ikemen.
The kanji that I could somehow read was stitched onto the lapel looked like it had been embroidered by someone who'd studied under a master calligrapher while listening to lo-fi beats. Akio Ikemen. "Of course," I muttered, resisting the urge to facepalm—not just at the name, but at the fact that my brain had automatically translated it without stumbling.
I kept walking down the cobblestone path, each step crunching petals underfoot with a sound suspiciously like ASMR. The stray cats didn't even glance up—too busy being picturesque—except for one orange tabby who flicked his tail at me in a gesture that somehow conveyed *"Late again, huh?"* like we'd shared this routine for years. A bicycle bell chimed behind me, and I sidestepped just in time to avoid colliding with a girl whose pigtails defied gravity in a way that only Anime could.
"Bitch." I hissed under my breath as I side stepped. My body moved before I could even think—muscle memory from dodging subway shoves or maybe this world's protagonist instincts kicking in. The girl skidded to a stop, her pigtails bouncing with cartoonish elasticity as she whipped around, eyes narrowing into the universal anime expression of *you-did-not-just-say-that*.
Because of fucking course she heard me.