Can Prisoners Have Pets, Too?

Is this... a prison?

Hope woke up, feeling disoriented as he took in his surroundings.

Where was this?

There was no breeze at all. The room was stiflingly hot, and a faint musty smell hung in the air. The bed beneath him was just a piece of cloth laid over a wooden board, and his pillow was a bundle of clothes. By touch, they all seemed rotten.

Hope raised a hand to rub his eyes. His right wrist felt heavy, and only then did he realize he was shackled with an iron chain. It was wound around his wrist several times, fitting almost snugly against his skin. A massive iron lock hung from it—that was what he'd felt weighing him down.

The chain was as thick as a finger. By touch, it had already begun to rust.

He lifted it and coiled it beside himself. It was probably four or five meters long. The other end was attached to the wall in front of him, nailed in place with an iron spike. He pulled hard, but the spike didn't budge.

The wall was made of wood, crudely cut. Hope could feel the splinters.

He rubbed his eyes again, this time a little harder. A layer of dirt came off on the back of his hand. It was as if he hadn't bathed in months.

He forced his eyes open,

but everything was blurry.

Other than the hand right in front of him, Hope couldn't make out a thing. Everything farther away was just a blur of color. Even his hand looked wrong. Despite the thick layer of dirt and the dim light, he could still see that his skin was unnaturally pale.

He felt his head. His hair was a tangled mess, coarse to the touch, hanging over his shoulders. He pulled it in front of his eyes. It was white like an old man's, but when he felt his skin, there were no wrinkles.

He felt his clothes: a cotton shirt... probably white, though it had yellowed a little. No holes. Brown trousers, a bit too long... like suit pants.

This wasn't my body.

That was what he thought.

This is a dream.

I'd just borrowed someone's advanced calculus homework to copy. How did I fall asleep?

Hope pinched the web between his thumb and forefinger as hard as he could. The nails on this hand hadn't been trimmed in ages—maybe they'd never been trimmed at all. Their jagged tips looked bitten off, and they hadn't grown out smooth yet. Now they dug deep into the flesh of his hand.

"Ugh!" Hope grunted in pain, clutching his hand and curling into a ball. "*!"

*Damn it! This isn't a dream!

Hope bit his fingernail.

Where am I?

Who am I?

Did I transmigrate?

*Damn it! My instant noodles! I'd just made them, and I even added an egg!

How did I get here?

Can copying homework kill you?

Those blueprints that bring nothing but misery!

The twelve A2 architectural design sheets I spent three days drawing, at least nine hours a day!

Wasn't it supposed to be fine for young people to pull a few all-nighters?

So, am I the protagonist?

What era is this?

Why am I in a cell? Shouldn't I be in a palace, surrounded by royalty and nobles?

Is this some tragic romance? Please, no.

Where are the previous owner's memories?

Footsteps interrupted Hope's wild thoughts. In such a quiet place, they stood out. They drew closer and soon stopped.

"Click."

A key turned in the lock.

Who was it?

A guard?

What was he going to do?

The door opened, and a person about two meters tall walked in. From the indistinct colors, his skin looked dark yellow.

A black man?

A black guard and a white prisoner. Interesting... No, that wasn't important...

Too bad his skin wasn't dark enough. He was a little pale for a black man...

Hope blinked, and a string of numbers appeared in his mind without warning:

0.98, 1.65, 1.21, 3.01

For some reason, Hope was certain the numbers belonged to the person in front of him.

What was this?

Why had those numbers suddenly come to mind?

No, that wasn't right. It didn't feel like he'd remembered them. It was more like someone had forced them into his head.

What did they mean?

Some kind of stats?

Was this my cheat?

Why was it so cryptic?

"Come on, Hope," the guard said. He stepped forward with a key in hand, ready to unlock the chain on Hope's wrist.

Up close, Hope could just make out the guard's face. It was hideously ugly, with a shaggy beard like a goat's, though he might not be very old.

He didn't seem to be wearing a uniform. His coat was neat but worn, and he looked like an American farmer from the twentieth century.

He didn't look like a guard. Maybe Hope had been imprisoned illegally.

Hope.

Hope repeated the sound the guard had just made.

It sounded like Hope, but it didn't seem to be my name. The pronunciation was too strange.

The previous owner was probably also called Hope. It was similar to my name, but in a completely different language, with a different pronunciation.

And somehow, I could understand what he'd said.

I shouldn't be able to speak this language, and I couldn't possibly know it. The only foreign language I knew was English.

I hadn't even passed the CET-4, and I'd failed a course last semester.

But I really did understand him.

Well, maybe some of the previous owner's memories were still in this body.

If so, things weren't too bad. It'd be a disaster if I couldn't even speak.

"Where are we going?" Hope asked without thinking.

The guard's hand stopped.

Hope's heart skipped a beat, and he immediately regretted asking.

Could it be something the previous owner already knew?

Fortunately, the guard only paused for a moment before answering. "To show you your pets."

My pets?

The previous owner had pets?

Wasn't he a prisoner?

"And," the guard continued, "this is the fourth time you've lost your memory... Heh. Your name is Hope Whateley. I'm Wilbur Whateley, your younger brother."

Lost his memory?

Uh... I guess that counted as amnesia.

A brother?

Hope rubbed his chin. Things seemed more interesting than he'd expected.

This looked like a family drama. Unfortunately, I seemed to be the one at a disadvantage... The imprisoned older brother... Wilbur was so ugly. I hope I'm not that ugly too.

The fourth time he'd lost his memory... The previous owner had lost his memory three times before. Or had he tried pretending to have amnesia to escape imprisonment? Seems like that hadn't worked.

But from what Wilbur said, he didn't seem to care whether his brother had amnesia.

That made sense. He'd locked his own brother up, so he probably didn't care about his health.

Wait...

Did my current state count as "amnesia"?

What if the previous times weren't amnesia at all, and someone else had just taken over the body?

Just like now.

It was bizarre, but what if?

What if I thought I'd gotten a secondhand account, when in fact it was the fifthhand one?

Why had all the previous account owners stopped playing?

Was the game no fun?

...Could there be something wrong with the account?

...Besides, in a realistic game like this, selling an account secondhand should be harder than deleting it, right?

"Get up," Wilbur said abruptly. "Stop spacing out. Don't waste our time. Or do you need me to help you up?"

"Sorry."

Hope realized he'd been lost in thought. He followed Wilbur, who had already opened the door and was about to leave.

Without thinking, he slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and was surprised to find something inside.

From the feel of it, it was a folded piece of paper. The paper was poor quality, with rough edges, like it had been torn from a newspaper. But the folds were still stiff, and its edges felt sharp against his fingers.

Paper this flimsy would turn as soft as toilet paper in a pocket before long, wouldn't it?

It must have been put there recently.

Had the previous Hope put it there?

"What is it now?" Wilbur asked.

"Nothing. I was just wondering, do I go see my pets often?"

"You can only see them once a month," Wilbur replied. "Hurry up and keep up."