In a Toriko-themed world, Amanda gets teleported while she is relaxing on the couch after a long, exhausting day at a low-paying job that pays her only three dollars an hour, as she is watching Toriko, and Amanda has a big crush on Zebra, not knowing Zebra is her soulmate. She works fifteen hours each day and receives her pay once a month. After work, she comes home to a terrible dinner while watching her favorite anime, Toriko. In the Toriko world, anyone can eat anything if they have the strength to defeat a monster. In her rare free time, Amanda creates ingredients for the Toriko universe by drawing and writing. She even created an OC to escape being called Rosalilith, the old name she despises. Her bio family is neglectful in mental, physical, and emotional aspects, as her parents gave all their love to her golden twin sister Emma, who actively sabotages her life by making sure she is alone and is miserable. She has an eidetic memory, so she developed a skill called occlumency to both sort and master her skills. Her OC character, named Amanda, a Name she wished she had instead of her old one, has gourmet cell types: crystal, sound, and space. Many very detailed, hardcore, rough Sex scenes with breeding kink, deflowering, and a 25-foot monster-sized cock and a very possessive and very dominating Zebra.

Chapter 1: Collapse into Another World

The springs of the couch screamed as Amanda collapsed into them, a sigh escaping her lips that tasted of cheap noodles and defeat. The apartment held the stale, quiet heat of a closed box. A single bulb fought a losing war against the gloom, casting long shadows from the towers of sketchbooks and empty instant ramen cups that surrounded her. On the screen, Toriko roared, his unreal musculature rippling as he faced down some calamity beast. Her own stomach growled, a pathetic echo. She nudged the cold takeout container on the cushion next to her with her elbow; the orange grease had solidified into a waxy, unappetizing skin.

“Yeah, you and me both, buddy,” she muttered to the anime hero, pulling a threadbare blanket over her legs. The fabric of the couch was worn slick under her thighs, a map of countless hours spent right here, drawing, watching, existing in the low hum of her own stagnation. She’d been working on a new OC for hours—a chef whose cells could secrete gourmet toxins—but the lines had started to blur, the ink smudging under her tired hand.

Her eyelids were lead weights. The drone of the show’s triumphant theme song began to warp, slowing, deepening. The flickering light from the TV was the only pulse in the room.

Then it wasn’t.

A sound like tearing canvas, immense and close, ripped through the silence. The TV screen went blinding white, not static, but a pure, consuming luminescence that flooded every stained corner of the room. Amanda jerked upright, her heart a frantic bird against her ribs. The smell hit her next—not dust and old food, but wet earth, dizzying pollen, and a sharp, metallic tang like blood on the air.

The light collapsed in on itself with a thunderclap that shook the apartment walls, rattling the ramen cups. Where her coffee table had been, space buckled and bled.

And then he was there.

He filled the room. Seven and a half feet of raw, sculpted power that made her anime sketches look like timid stick figures. His hair was a wild pink spill, his eyes sharp slits of focused intensity. He wore only simple hides across his waist, but his skin… it was a roadmap of scars and corded muscle, still gleaming with a sheen of sweat or maybe jungle rain. The air vibrated with a pure, predatory heat that rolled off him in waves.

Amanda’s breath died in her throat. She couldn’t scream. She could only stare.

Toriko’s head swiveled, taking in the dingy walls, the cluttered floor, her. His nostrils flared. “Where is this?” His voice was a low rumble, a tectonic shift. “The air… it tastes dead. Empty.”

“You’re… you’re not…” she stammered, scrambling back until the worn couch fabric hit the wall.

He took a step, the floorboard groaning in agony under his boot. His gaze pinned her. “A human. But the scent is weak. Starved.” His eyes traveled over her, not with lust, but with a terrifying, analytical hunger. “What is your full-course menu, little thing?”

This was a dream. A fucking stress-induced, ramen-fueled hallucination. She squeezed her eyes shut. Wake up. Wake up.

She opened them. He was closer, leaning over her, the sheer mass of him blocking out the light. The wild, clean scent of him—of exertion and untamed places—overwhelmed the apartment’s staleness. It was alarmingly real.

“I asked you a question,” he said, and his hand, large enough to wrap around her entire head, came up. He didn’t grab her.