Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate

Chapter 278: What are these titles ?

“Like your boyfriend.”

Victoria turned on her heel so fast the air seemed to crack.

In one fluid motion, she pressed a hand over his mouth—palm firm, eyes sharp, her expression a blend of fury and flawless control.

“Don’t,” she said, voice quiet but edged in steel.

Victoria’s hand lingered a heartbeat longer than it should have—still pressed against his mouth, still caught in that dangerous tension.

Then, realizing herself, she pulled back. Quickly. Too quickly.

Her eyes flicked around the corridor—snapping left, right, to the glass-panel reflections and the hallway junctions.

No one.

Not a student. Not a faculty assistant. Just the distant hum of climate wards and the buzz of a far-off lecture bell. They were alone.

She exhaled—controlled, quiet. But the breath was real. A tell.

Because that idiot had nearly said it.

Her glare snapped back to him, sharp and seething. But before she could spit another warning—

Damien’s hand caught her wrist.

“What—?”

He didn’t pull. Just lifted her arm, slow and smooth like examining an artifact. His fingers closed lightly around her wrist as he raised it, palm still open, still warm from where it had been pressed against him.

Her eyes narrowed. “Let go.”

But he didn’t. Not yet.

He leaned in again, and his voice was velvet against the space between them.

“You’re awfully touchy,” he murmured, “for a girl who has a boyfriend.”

Her heart skipped—an involuntary thump that landed hard in her ribs.

‘Damn it—’

She wrenched her arm back. “Let. Go.”

“Sure,” Damien said, and released her without hesitation.

But in the next half-second—before she could even step back—

his hand darted forward, knuckles sharp.

A flicker of movement. A whisper of intent.

And then—stab.

His fingers poked just beneath her ribcage, into that narrow soft spot he’d marked from a week ago. It wasn’t hard. But it was precise.

“—Ah!”

Victoria flinched violently, a hiss breaking past her lips as the nerves lit like sparks. Pain wasn’t the word—just jarring, just enough to short her rhythm for one half-beat.

And Damien—

Already grinning. Already leaning back.

“You don’t get to block my mouth for free,” he said lightly.

The next second, her leg came up in a sharp, fluid kick. Not enough to break anything—but enough to send the message clearly.

He caught it. Just barely. Blocked it with a step back, boots sliding smoothly against the tile.

“Aww… we’re getting physical again?” Damien said, that lazy smirk still half-laced on his face. “How violent.”

But his eyes?

They weren’t playful anymore.

They were watching her—measuring. And for a flicker of a second, Victoria saw something behind them. Not mockery. Not teasing.

Seriousness.

“You—!” she hissed, voice catching sharp at the edge of fury.

He didn’t flinch. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, like she hadn’t just tried to kick his ribs in.

Victoria’s jaw tightened. Her body still angled from the missed strike. Her balance held, but her mind—

‘When did this guy get this good?’

Damien Elford had always been trouble, but never this kind.

He’d been slick, yes. Loud-mouthed. Infuriating. But never sharp. Never physically trained. The Damien she remembered could barely keep his shirt tucked, let alone read an opponent’s stance or match her tempo.

But just now—he’d read her leg before it even lifted.

Not a flinch, not a stagger. He’d blocked it. Fluidly. Cleanly.

That wasn’t instinct. That was drilled-in timing.

She stepped back half a pace, eyes narrowing.

‘Did he… train? While losing all that weight?’

It made sense. Sort of.

Except his movement hadn’t been amateur. That block wasn’t just reaction—it was placement. Precision. He’d tracked her weight shift, counted the angle, moved like someone who’d practiced.

Not in a school gym. Not casually.

Properly.

And that made something twist beneath her ribs—an edge of unease sharpened by curiosity.

But suddenly…

SWOOSH!

Victoria’s breath was still catching up to her thoughts when Damien moved again.

Fast.

Too fast.

Not a fake-out. Not some lazy flick like before—this motion cut the air with intent. Her instincts fired before her logic could catch up.

A split-second spike of adrenaline.

And she reacted.

Eyes shut.

Shoulders tensed.

Guard up.

But the blow never landed.

Instead—

Puff.

A breath—soft and warm—brushed against the curve of her left ear.

“Wakey, wakey,” Damien whispered, low and drawn, like a secret he wasn’t supposed to tell.

Her entire body jolted.

A ripple. A shudder from neck to heel that made her spine stiffen and her fingers curl instinctively. Her breath caught, her posture snapped rigid, and her heart spiked with something so sudden, so involuntary, it almost made her stumble.

And then she opened her eyes.

Too fast. Too wide.

Only to see—

His black hair right in front of her. Just brushing past. Already pulling away.

He was stepping back, posture relaxed, like he hadn’t just sent a current through every nerve in her body.

His grin—unrepentant.

“You really just made my day,” Damien said, voice rich with amusement as he strolled backward, one hand casually ruffling his own hair.

Victoria didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Because her face—usually unreadable, cool, poised—felt hot. Too hot.

Damien slowed just enough to glance over his shoulder—those clear, ocean-cut blue eyes still fixed on her, as if nothing about the moment had been fleeting. No apology. No smirk now, either.

Just words. Smooth. Barely raised in volume.

“Next time,” he said, “don’t look at me so blatantly.”

Victoria’s brow twitched—barely—but he didn’t pause.

“If you want,” he added, voice almost casual, “come to my table. At least then… you’ll get a real conversation.”

And then he turned.

No lingering, no backward glance. Just a confident pace that carried him down the hallway like it had been his stage from the start. The silence he left behind settled heavy. Like it had meaning. Like it was meant to stay.

Victoria remained still, lips parted in a soundless breath.

Not because of what he’d said.

But how he’d said it.

He knew.

Not just about the stare earlier. Not just about the brief, unguarded flickers she thought she’d masked—he knew something deeper.

Real conversation…

The phrase echoed. Lodged itself like a pin behind her ribs.

As if he could already tell the cracks were forming. That the calm in her wasn’t so calm anymore. That her tightly compartmentalized logic—about him, about Marek, about control—wasn’t as airtight as she thought.

That she was the one drifting, even as she tried to convince herself otherwise.

Victoria stood for a moment longer, then slowly turned away, forcing her steps into smooth, practiced rhythm.

But her fingers were curled a little too tightly around her strap.

*****

Damien strolled back toward the classroom, hands tucked loosely into his pockets, posture loose and easy. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet now—most students already filed into their respective lecture blocks. His footsteps echoed faintly in the cool corridor, but inside?

He was still laughing.

Not out loud. Not visibly.

But damn—that reaction.

The stiff jolt. The twitch at her brow. That flash of heat behind her eyes when he’d whispered wakey, wakey into her ear. It played back in his head like a scene he wanted to frame.

He exhaled through his nose, the smile curling at his lips not smug, not cruel.

Just… entertained.

‘She really tried to kick me.’

Not just a slap or a shove. A proper, form-checked kick. Heel sharp. Movement clean. If he hadn’t been paying attention, it would’ve connected.

‘Cute.’

Not because she failed. But because she meant it.

There was no performance in that motion. No carefully filtered posture like the ones she wore in class or at Celia’s side. That was real Victoria Langley—cornered and livid and electrified.

And it suited her.

DING!

Just then the system notification came.

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