The time I got transmigrated into a game

Sometimes, I used to wish wings would sprout from my back. As a kid, I’d imagine standing atop the roof of our home, stretching them wide as the wind ruffled every feather. They’d be brilliant white, speckled with brown and black, gleaming under the bright spring light. Thinking back to my eight-year-old self—picturing how desperately I wanted to fly far away just to find a new mommy and daddy—feels almost absurd now. Love for a person like me never comes willingly. And obviously, I never mutated into an avian creature. I’m still just Henry. Still a pushover. Henry, the human ATM. A chuckle escaped my lips—sudden, soft, and completely wrong in the silence. "What's so funny?" Old man Johnson asked. He was a rugged, weathered man who’d clearly spent his whole life breaking his back on job sites. Nothing ever seemed to faze him, and I envied that kind of quiet resilience. Maybe if I had an ounce of it, I’d finally find the strength to say no. Maybe. Johnson’s muscles strained under the weight of two sacks of concrete as he hauled them toward the mixer beside my machine. Sweat dripped from his chin, a heavy huff pushing past his lips. "Nothing. Just remembered something funny I saw online," the lie slid out smoothly. I flashed a bright smile, though anyone looking closely enough could see the deep bone exhaustion underneath. Johnson huffed. Thud. The heavy sacks dropped off his shoulders, crashing haphazardly onto the dirt. "Nothing? It's always 'nothing' with you kids." I forced a cheerful laugh, but the sound rang hollow—empty, even. Still, I kept the smile plastered on my face. Crouching down, I jabbed my fingers into the thick, glued seam at the top corner of a sack, fighting through three layers of reinforced brown paper until it finally tore open. My knuckles were dusted in chalky gray silt, and a cloud of dust surged upward, hitting me square in the face. I inhaled at the wrong moment. A dry, violent cough shook my lungs, leaving a faint wet rattle in my chest. "That sounds nasty," Johnson said, pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands. "Huh? Oh, this? Just a normal cough. It’ll clear up in a week." "One week, my ass. You’ve been barking like a dog for a whole month. You need to get that checked out." "Nah, too expensive. You know we don't get health benefits here." Brrrrannng! Brrrrannng! The sharp blast of the break bell cut Johnson off. He glanced toward the foreman, who gave a quick nod. "Lunchtime. Come on, kid, let's go grab a bite," the old man said, grunting. "Yeah, let's go. What do you think Auntie Lucy cooked up today?" I asked, grabbing my bag. "Who knows? That crazy hag cooks whatever pops into her head. Yesterday it was pork ribs, today it's pig slop, tomorrow it'll be roasted duck," Johnson muttered with a shake of his head. 1. A piece of cornbread, a cold clump of leftover rice with burnt crust sticking to it, and whatever was left of last night's dinner. That was what Mom had packed for me. It looked sad, but by now, I was used to it. There was no point in complaining—it would only invite a lecture on gratitude. Old man Johnson leaned over my shoulder and frowned. "Is that all you're going to eat?" I forced a bright smile and began wolfing down the rice and souring leftovers. "What do you mean? This is great! My mom packed me lunch—isn't that way better than wasting money buying food?" Johnson's eyes narrowed. It felt like he was peering right through me, seeing straight past the performative smiles, the bad jokes, and the lighthearted laughter. He huffed and shook his head. "You're something else," he muttered, reaching into his own tin and dropping a massive piece of fried chicken straight onto my lunchbox. My eyes widened as a surge of shame washed over me. "Johnson, I can't take that! That's your lunch," I protested, my hands waving frantically. As tempting as that savory chicken smelled, Johnson had his own struggles. Taking his food felt like placing another heavy burden onto his shoulders. "Tsk! Stop flapping your mouth and eat the damn chicken," he grunted. I stared down at the crisp skin, wondering if it was really okay. My stomach gave an embarrassing growl at the mere thought of a proper meal. Swallowing my pride, my eyes welled with tears. "Thank you, Old Man. I'll buy you some steamed pork buns after work." "Yeah, yeah. Just save some of that money for yourself instead of handing every dime over to your family. Look at you—you're stuck eating spoiled leftovers and burnt rice." My fork froze halfway to my mouth. I stared at him wide-eyed, my chest tightening. Could I really do that? Just stop giving them everything? I let out a heavy breath and lowered my fork. "It's fine... they need the money." "You need money too, kid." Silence stretched between us. I sat there, completely at a loss for words. Sure, keeping a little cash for myself sounded amazing, but how could I break free from years of 'family first'? How could I ignore my parents? "It really is fine, Old Man," I insisted, forcing another quick grin. "I'm happy to help them." The words tasted bitter the moment they left my tongue—like biting into a bitter melon, tolerable at first bite, but leaving a harsh, lingering aftertaste. "Besides... it's a son's duty to honor his parents." "It's a son's duty, sure," Johnson replied evenly. "But not to the point where you're killing yourself to hand over every paycheck." My gaze dropped, a sharp pang of heartache pierced through me. I let out a soft sigh and took a bite of the fried chicken. How could something taste so incredible, yet feel so utterly bland in my mouth? Chewing through the bite of chicken and rice, I looked back up at Johnson. "Thanks, Old Man. I promise... I'll try to take better care of myself." He gave me a look that silently screamed, Yeah, right. Staring back at his weathered face, a quiet question echoed in my mind: Why couldn't my parents be like this? Why can't they see me the way he does? "What's with that face, Old Man? Getting soft on me?" I teased, trying to shake off the heavy mood. "What?! Me? Soft? Ha! I'll be six feet under before I get soft on anyone!" he growled, waving a calloused hand at me. A laugh bubbled up from my chest and escaped my lips before I could stop it. It caught me completely off guard—it was real, warm, and genuine. For a fleeting second, I forgot about the hollow ache in my chest for a family that might never love me back. For just those few precious seconds, I actually felt cared for. ​