Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 114: Friends (2)

Damien was still for a heartbeat.

Then—

He clapped.

A slow, deliberate clap that echoed through the now silent classroom.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The sound cut through the tension like a blade.

Kaine blinked. Ezra's smirk faltered. Even Moren flinched.

Damien tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable, and then—

He stood.

Smooth, unhurried. His presence stretched as he rose, towering just a little more over the room, his eyes hard with something colder than mockery—certainty.

"Heh?" Kaine muttered, confused.

"Is that it?" Damien said quietly, but his voice carried with clarity.

He stepped back to his desk, reached into his bag, and pulled out the black meal container—the same one from earlier. He held it casually, almost like a prop in a play, and looked at the three of them one by one.

"Alpha, beta, omega…" he said, his voice low. "I don't give a shit about those kinds of labels."

He paused, then added, "That stuff's for people who need to justify who they are by ranking others."

Kaine's expression darkened, but Damien didn't even look at him.

He turned toward the door, container in hand, and began walking. Calm. Composed.

"But…" he said over his shoulder, voice still smooth, "the difference between you and me?"

He glanced back, blue eyes sharp.

"I'm working for a change."

They didn't answer.

Damien stopped just at the door, hand resting on the frame.

"You've spoken your hearts out," he said, looking at them one last time. "And now you know—" his voice turned clipped, final—

"—we no longer have anything to do with each other."

A beat.

Then he waved once, casual and dismissive.

"So go fuck yourselves."

He stepped into the hall.

"And the day you finally realize how fucked your life is because of living like this?" he said without looking back,

"It'll be a bit fucking late. Do better."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

And in that silence, none of them—not a single one—could find the words to respond.

The hallway was quiet.

Too quiet.

Damien had barely taken two steps out when he saw her.

A figure leaning against the far wall, arms crossed neatly beneath her chest, her posture rigid—but not defensive. Just composed.

Brown eyes met his. Calm. Sharp. Watching.

"You…" he muttered.

Her presence was unmistakable. The crisp lines of her uniform perfectly straight. The faint glint of her glasses reflecting the light from the high arched windows.

"…Oh. Class Rep."

Isabelle Moreau didn't answer immediately.

She just stood there, still as stone, eyes locked on his.

Damien tilted his head, that lazy smirk curling at his lips once more, though his eyes remained focused—probing.

"Were you listening?" he asked, voice low, almost amused.

A pause.

Then she pushed off the wall, walking toward him with unhurried grace.

"I was passing by," she said coolly.

A non-answer.

Damien chuckled. "You're a terrible liar, Moreau."

Isabelle stopped a few feet away, gaze unwavering. "And you're surprisingly articulate for someone who sleeps through half his classes."

Damien's smirk widened. "Surprisingly?"

"I said what I said."

The silence between them was different from the one that had filled the classroom moments ago. It wasn't empty. It was charged. Tight with something that hadn't yet been named.

"Well?" he asked, raising a brow. "Did I ruin your expectations again, or did I meet them this time?"

Isabelle didn't respond right away.

She stood there, brown eyes fixed on him, but her expression had shifted.

The sharp edge of discipline, of protocol, was still there—but underneath it, something softer stirred. Something quieter.

Concern.

Her lips parted slightly.

Then—

"…Are you…"

Her voice was gentler now, barely above a whisper.

"Are you okay?"

Damien blinked.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Just… looked at her.

That question.

He hadn't expected it.

Not from her. Not from someone like Isabelle Moreau—the perfectionist, the honor student, the girl who dissected every rule down to the letter and held herself like a general preparing for war.

But of course…

Of course someone like her would ask that.

An upright person, when placed in the shoes of another, would always measure pain first. Would always consider what they would've felt.

'She must've heard the things they said,' Damien thought.

He could picture it—her leaning against the wall, silent, while every insult thrown at him echoed through the door.

And because she was her, she didn't think, "That's what he deserved."

She thought—Would I have been okay if it were me?

And that was the difference.

That was why Damien respected her.

He smiled. It wasn't a smirk this time—just a quiet curl of the lips.

"I'm fine," he said simply, voice low. "If you want to make a change, things like this are bound to happen."

Her eyes lingered on his for a long second.

"…Are you sure?" she asked.

Damien let the silence sit for a beat—then his smile shifted.

Wider now. A little playful.

He stepped forward, just enough to invade that perfect little bubble of composure she kept around herself.

"You're asking me that," he murmured, eyes glinting. "Are you interested in me now, Class Rep?"

Isabelle stiffened.

Just slightly.

A brief flicker in her gaze. Her lips parted as if to speak, but the words got caught somewhere on the edge of her pride.

Damien chuckled.

"Because if this is your version of checking in," he added, "I might start getting into more arguments. Seems like it works."

Isabelle's eyes narrowed further, her pride stitching her composure back together with expert precision.

"Tch," she muttered, straightening her posture. "It's my fault for thinking a scoundrel like you might have something worthwhile to say beyond cheap provocations."

Damien raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. "Oh? And yet here you are, still standing here. Curious."

She didn't dignify that with a response.

Instead, she moved.

A swift step past him, her shoulder brushing his ever so slightly—not enough to be aggressive, but just enough to let him know she had chosen to walk away.

Damien watched her go, his gaze trailing after the swish of her uniform, the straight posture, the measured steps that told him she was already putting distance between them both physically and emotionally.

He let out a low hum, lips curling into something thoughtful.

In the game… she wasn't anyone important.

Not a heroine. Not a love interest.

Just a side character meant to scold the original Damien Elford—a disciplinary countermeasure coded into the story.

A character with a few sharp lines, a handful of early-game appearances, and a role that was designed to fade as the player moved on to the "real" girls.

But…

There had been that one scene. A quiet, optional one that most players skipped right over.

Just a camera panning briefly through the school garden during lunch hour.

And there she was.

The class representative.

Eating by herself.

Sitting beneath the shade of a tree, with a neatly packed lunch and a book resting beside her.

No dialogue. No fanfare. Just silence. Solitude.

Yeah… That one.

He remembered it now.

The implications had been clear, even if the game never highlighted it:

She wasn't just alone because she liked the peace.

She was alone because no one ever really tried to reach her.

'Since she comes from a common background, she probably wouldn't waste her money on cafeteria meals every day,' Damien mused, starting down the hallway with slow steps.

'She'd bring her own food. Organized. Frugal. Practical.'

Just as he turned the corner, he caught sight of the others.

Kaine, Ezra, and Moren—walking down the opposite hall, heading out of the building, still simmering in their own useless egos.

Damien scoffed, not sparing them more than a glance.

He stepped into the classroom.

And there she was.

Isabelle sat near the window, her lunchbox already open. A small stack of handwritten notes sat beside her meal, and a pen rested loosely in her fingers. She was already mid-bite, chewing slowly, methodically, her gaze flicking toward the open page of her notebook.

Precise, like always.

Damien walked over.

Without hesitation, he pulled out the chair next to her and sat down.

She froze. Just slightly.

Her eyes slid toward him without turning her head. "…What are you doing?"

He set his meal container down on the desk and cracked the lid open. The faint scent of monster meat and spice drifted into the air.

"I'm about to eat my meal," Damien said casually.

"I can see that," Isabelle replied flatly. "But who allowed you to sit here?"

He grinned, picking up his fork. "Come on, Class Rep. Isn't it boring to eat alone?"

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"No. I love my peace."

"That," he said with a raised brow, "sounds lonely."

She looked at him fully now, eyes narrowing behind her glasses. "It's not. It's quiet. That's the difference."

"Maybe," Damien said, stabbing into a piece of meat, "but quiet gets old fast. And solitude's a dangerous habit."

She stared for a moment, unreadable. Then, with a small sigh, she returned to her food.

"Don't talk with your mouth full."