Reborn With the Infinite Gods System

Harry peeked nervously through the peephole of his apartment door. Outside, a large, beefy man in a suit stood, fists clenched, his face twisted in anger. The landlord. He knocked loudly, each strike against the door echoing in the silence of Harry's bleak apartment.

"You bastard! Your rent is due!" the man yelled, his voice thick with contempt. "If I don't get my money by next week, you're soup! I know you're in there, so you better listen for your own good, beggar," he spat, his tone dripping with disgust, before finally turning and storming down the corridor.

Harry waited, holding his breath, until he could no longer hear the landlord's footsteps. Only then did he cautiously unlock the door and peer into the hallway, confirming the coast was clear. He darted back inside, slamming the door shut behind him, pressing his back against it as he exhaled sharply. His heart pounded, the weight of his reality crashing down around him.

"I can't believe I'm six months behind on rent," he muttered bitterly to himself. "At this rate, I'll be kicked out, and my salary… it's already going to be delayed." The hopelessness weighed heavily on his chest. It was as if he was drowning, trapped beneath the crushing waves of his own despair.

Harry slumped down to the floor, his legs folding beneath him as he dropped the stack of overdue bills he'd been clutching. They scattered across the floor like the debris of his shattered life. His voice trembled as he muttered, "And as if that's not enough, my parents… they're asking me for money too.

They don't care that I'm barely surviving… they don't even know." His throat tightened as he recalled their last conversation, where his mother had insisted, "Just send what you can; we're counting on you."

Burying his face in his hands, he let out a low, strangled groan, his frustration and exhaustion bubbling over. The reality of his life felt like a weight pressing him into the cold, hard floor of his tiny, empty apartment. Every wall was blank, bare of anything that might make the place feel like a home, and each item he owned was worn and fading, relics of a life he could barely recognize anymore.

He stood up slowly, stumbling over to his "kitchen," if it could even be called that. Opening the fridge, he found only a small plate of half-spoiled meat, a dubious color spreading across its edges. He took it out, staring at it for a long moment, debating if eating it was worth the risk.

"Guess food poisoning wouldn't be the worst way to go," he muttered, attempting a hollow laugh that felt like a slap to his own dignity. He carried the plate back to the living room, sitting on the cold floor as he took a few reluctant bites, chewing slowly, the taste almost unbearable.

It was gone in two bites, leaving him even more unsatisfied. He lay back on the rough carpet, gazing up at the ceiling. The dim, gray light filtered in from a cracked window, barely illuminating the room. Shadows clung to the corners, silent reminders of how empty his life had become.

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His only source of light came from his neighbor's window, where he could see flickers of warmth that felt alien to his world.

He let out a weary sigh, his thoughts drifting to happier days, to faces he hadn't seen in what felt like a lifetime. "If Trisha was here…" he whispered to the emptiness, "she'd probably be laughing at me, calling me a hopeless mess, but she'd make me something to eat… maybe ramen, or a steak just to spoil me a bit."

But Trisha wasn't here. None of them were. They were all gone, the memories of their laughter and friendship distant, like echoes of a dream. The life he once had felt like a fading photograph, and he wondered if it had ever truly existed. He forced himself to smile, even as his chest ached. "It was all fiction, wasn't it?

A world where binding exists, aliens, heroes… it was never real."

Yet, try as he might, he couldn't forget. That world had left an imprint, like a scar etched into his soul.

***

The alarm buzzed the next morning, cutting through the quiet. Harry woke up on the floor, barely able to remember falling asleep. He dragged himself into the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror. Dark circles hung under his eyes, his face haggard, and his hair unkempt. The man staring back at him was a stranger, hollowed out, just a shadow of who he once was.

He splashed cold water on his face, forcing himself awake, before pulling on his old office shirt, wrinkled but serviceable. His tie was frayed, and his trousers were worn thin, but it was all he had. With no money for transport, he walked the long route to his office, taking detours to avoid familiar faces—people he owed money, friends he could no longer look in the eye.

As he walked, he noticed the early morning bustle of people hurrying to work, their faces filled with purpose, with hope. But for him, every step felt like dragging himself deeper into a pit he could never escape from.

He reached his workplace and took his seat at his desk, the computer screen glaring at him with rows of numbers. Work piled up, a mountain of tasks that he was expected to handle without complaint. Yet, as he typed, his fingers seemed to falter, his mind sluggish. Simple tasks that used to be second nature felt foreign, and he struggled to remember even the basics.

"How… how am I forgetting this?" he muttered, frustration tightening his chest. "I used to be good at this…"

He waved down a passing colleague for help, a woman he barely knew. But as she approached, she rolled her eyes in disdain. "You think I have time to help you? Pathetic," she sneered, brushing past him without a second glance.

Harry clenched his fists, swallowing the bitter taste of humiliation. "If I wasn't so useless…" he muttered to himself, "I wouldn't need help from people like her."

As he sat there, head lowered in frustration, another voice broke the silence.

"Hey, Harry? Do you need any help?"

He looked up, surprised. A kind-faced woman stood before him, someone he didn't recognize. She offered him a gentle smile, her presence like a lifeline in the sea of his despair.

"Yeah… I could use some help," he replied hesitantly, feeling an unfamiliar warmth settle in his chest as she patiently guided him through the task.

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Once they finished, she stood, nodding toward a nearby desk. "I sit right over there. Let me know if you need anything else."

He watched her walk away, wondering why someone would be kind to him, of all people. She seemed familiar somehow, though he couldn't place it.

"Wait," he called after her, offering a small, awkward smile. "I'm Harry, by the way."

She paused, turning back with an expression he couldn't quite read. And then, to his shock, she extended her hand with a warmth that felt like a memory.

"I'm Mrs. Teras," she said softly, "or, as you used to call me… Mum."

The world seemed to slow, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Her face shifted, morphing until it wore the features of the woman he'd lost so long ago. Memories flooded back, images of laughter, warmth, and love, all the things he thought he'd buried in the rubble of his past.

"Mum…"