This thing feels like someone smashed together a horny dating sim, a crime thriller and the kind of late night loneliness where you’re scrolling Tinder and thinking “if I had magic I’d fuck this world up so bad”. You’re this guy, smart, resentful, totally convinced he’s the main character of reality, and every girl he ever wanted basically treated him like wallpaper. Then he finds this stupidly cute pink notebook that looks like it belongs to a high school girl, not a tool for mind-breaking sex slavery, and suddenly the whole moral compass just flies out the window. You don’t “woo” girls here. You learn what wrecked them inside, write that shit down, and then you tell them how to love you. Or worship you. Or spread their legs and smile while their eyes are half dead and half addicted. Sometimes it’s hot. Sometimes it’s disgusting. Sometimes it’s both at the same time and that messed me up way more than any “normal” porn game, because it keeps asking quietly: “You’re still clicking next, right?”
The girls are not just nameless tits, even if the tits are absolutely ridiculous in that porn logic way, like gravity is more of a suggestion. There’s this monster girl with these soft, curved horns and a tail that looks cute until she wraps it around your leg while she’s on top, riding you like she owns you even though the notebook says you own her. I liked her. I also kinda hated her. She teases you, humiliates you, then suddenly melts the second the command hits and goes from “I’ll step on your throat” to “please breed me” so fast my brain needed a loading screen. Then there’s the detective, Leonor, who walks into scenes like she’s the only adult in a room full of horny teenagers. She’s not there to be your puppet, at least not at first, and when she starts putting the pieces together you feel that tightness in your chest that is not sexual at all. Then the scene changes, her shirt is half open, and now it is. The game is rude like that. It gives you this mystery puzzle about secrets and trauma, then slaps you in the face with a shot of a big ass grinding slowly on your lap while some broken girl moans your name like a prayer she didn’t choose. And all the time this ancient goddess floats around, pretty like some Instagram filter from hell, looking at your choices like she’s bored on a Sunday and you’re just entertainment.
What surprised me most is how often I stopped touching myself mid-scene because the story just turned too real for a second. One girl talks about her “wound” in that notebook sense and it sounded so much like a real ex of mine that my stomach actually dropped, but yeah, I still clicked the option that leads to her kneeling and calling me “master” because apparently I’m exactly the type of trash this game is made for. Then in another route I got mad on her behalf and tried to be kind, only to realize kindness is almost irrelevant here. The notebook always wants payment, and the payment is basically their soul. It’s like a toxic relationship: at first you think you’re in control, then you notice how every “nice” choice you made still had a little selfish rot inside. There’s humor too, weirdly. Some banter is actually funny, like when the protagonist calls himself “God of Romance” with a straight face. I laughed, then I remembered I just ordered a girl to spread her legs over a desk and cum on command after rewriting her memories like a psycho with good handwriting. The 3D models are kind of janky in certain poses and I swear one time a boob clipped through an arm and nobody fixed it. I stared at that mistake longer than I stared at some of the sex, actually. Then I forgot about it when a monster girl climbed into my lap, whispered that she existed only for my pleasure and then, in the next route, looked at me with pure hatred right before I stripped her mind again. It feels less like playing a hero and more like writing a very long, very horny suicide letter for your own morals. I wish the game respected consent more. I also like that it doesn’t. Both are true in my head and that’s kind of the whole vibe: arousal wrapped around shame, tied up with mystery, and the knot never really comes loose.