The mc is the rookie at the Cheat Item Management Bureau’s Victim Recovery Department, thought he was signing up for a gig with a shiny halo. On paper, it’s all noble and heroic—a squad dedicated to scooping up the poor souls wrecked by the nastiest supernatural junk imaginable. We’re talking mind-control gadgets that scramble your brain like eggs, time-stoppers that freeze you mid-sneeze, and memory-altering trinkets that leave folks more scrambled than a GPS in a tunnel. This department’s whole deal is to find these broken birds, patch ’em up, hit the reset button on their noggins, and send ’em back out into the wild like nothing ever went sideways. It’s supposed to be a job for saints, or at least people with a pulse and a heart the size of Texas.
So, day one on the clock, our rookie rolls up to this apartment complex that’s supposedly deader than disco according to every file in the system. The hallways are quieter than a library during finals, and dust is throwing a party on every surface. But behind one boring, beat-up door, he stumbles into a scene that hits like a punch that keeps landing—women who’ve been put through the wringer, and their silence is louder than any scream he’s ever heard, chewed up and spit out by the very cheat items his department is supposed to be bossing around. Hollow stares, breathing that sounds like a broken accordion, and trauma so thick you could cut it with a butter knife.
His mission? Simple enough on the surface: play nurse, offer a shoulder, scrub the bad memories away like they’re bad tattoos, and set them free. Give ’em a do-over. For weeks, he’s a model employee, following the rulebook like it’s his bible, dishing out comfort and logging every move. His supervisor nods approvingly, pats him on the back, and drops the bombshell: “You’ve got this, cowboy.” Then he bounces, the door clicks, and suddenly the mc is standing solo in a room full of amnesia-bound victims. No backup. No eyes on him. No one’s gonna remember a dang thing, not even his face.
And that’s when the devil on his shoulder starts whispering, slithering in like a snake in the grass. Slow at first, then louder than a rock concert. They’re gonna forget it all anyway, right?