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

Chapter 280: Heading to there

The bell rang, smooth and chimed—no shrill clang, no clatter. Vermillion’s way of announcing the end of the day was like everything else the school did: controlled, refined, just loud enough to cut through thought but never loud enough to startle.

Final period was over.

Isabelle closed her notebook with quiet precision, the soft sound of the cover snapping shut oddly satisfying. Her desk was already neat—notes squared, highlighters capped, and margins clean. She let herself breathe out, slow and even.

Today had been… productive.

Not just in the way she usually measured it—box-checked, curriculum-covered, mind-synced with system rhythm—but something deeper. There was a clarity to the lectures today. A rhythm to them. Her mind had clicked easily into place, like each concept had already carved out space before it even hit the board.

It wasn’t just absorption. It was understanding.

She thumbed through the last page of her notes one more time, eyes skimming the barriers module they’d wrapped the day with. Her handwriting was crisp as always, but there were more annotations than usual. Side thoughts. Linked principles. Practical triggers. Even a few margin notes she didn’t remember consciously writing. That only ever happened when she was truly immersed.

‘Today was… fun,’ she realized.

A small smile touched the corner of her mouth.

She rarely thought of lectures like that. They were tools. Means to an end. But something about the energy today—between the clarity, the flow of explanation, and the strange lightness in her chest—had made it feel different.

Her mind was full, but not tired.

That was rare.

She capped her pen, slid it into her case, and began stacking her materials. Across the room, students were already starting to filter out—chairs scraping gently, voices lifting into end-of-day chatter. Laughter, movement, plans being made for gym, for review, for the upcoming festival.

“Ughhhhhh,” Madeleine groaned theatrically from the row behind, flopping forward over her desk like a stage casualty. “Finally. I thought that last lecture was going to kill me. I was about five minutes from spontaneous soul ejection.”

Isabelle glanced up from her bag, not responding.

Not because she disagreed.

But because she didn’t see the point in engaging.

Madeleine, undeterred, dragged herself upright again with all the melodrama of someone who’d just crawled out of a desert. “Seriously,” Madeleine continued, throwing her hands up, “it’s just math and physics, right? Nothing crazy. But somehow it still manages to drain the will to live.”

Isabelle zipped her bag, slinging it over one shoulder. She didn’t say anything right away—just waited, listening as Madeleine half-whined, half-rambled her way through her post-lecture cooldown.

“I mean, barrier fields are interesting in theory,” Madeleine went on, “but after the fifteenth diagram and the third time he said ‘observe the curvature,’ I was ready to fling myself out the window.”

Isabelle finally turned, her voice quiet but not unkind. “Don’t you like math?”

Madeleine blinked, then gave a sheepish grin. “I do. But listening to someone else talk about it for an hour and a half is different. It’s the solving that’s fun.”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “So… the thinking is boring. But the work is fun.”

“Exactly!” Madeleine nodded enthusiastically. “Give me a problem set, a pen, and something sugary, and I’m happy for hours. But lecture? My brain just kind of… floats.”

Isabelle stared at her a moment longer, then gave a small shake of her head. “You’re strange.”

Madeleine grinned. “Hehe… thanks.”

But then her face turned serious.

She stretched her arms over her head, spine cracking audibly. “Man, how are you not fried after all that?”

Isabelle tilted her head. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“I mean,” Madeleine waved vaguely at the board that had long since cleared, “you actually listened. The whole time. Like, absorbed stuff. Processed it. Didn’t drift off once. That’s got to be exhausting.”

“It’s efficient,” Isabelle said simply.

“Yeah, see, that’s what makes you terrifying.”

They lapsed into a comfortable pause as the classroom continued to empty out around them. A few moments later, Chessa and Miri strolled in from the hallway, already halfway through some half-serious argument about which cafe on the lower block had better coffee.

“There you are,” Chessa said, nudging Madeleine with her elbow. “Thought you’d already gone full ghost mode.”

“I was having a crisis,” Madeleine replied solemnly, then immediately brightened. “But I’ve been stabilized by intellectual ridicule.”

Chessa grinned and turned to Isabelle. “What about you, Rep? You heading out?”

Isabelle was sliding her notebooks into her shoulder bag with mechanical precision. “No. I’ll be studying.”

Miri gave a small nod. “Of course.”

“Predictable as gravity,” Chessa said with a smile. “We’re heading out—our drivers are already waiting.”

Madeleine sighed dramatically. “Ugh, the burden of being picked up like a dignitary. It’s exhausting.”

“Want to walk down with us anyway?” Chessa offered, hoisting her bag higher onto her shoulder. “You know, join the entourage before we get chauffeured off into luxury and excess?”

Isabelle finished zipping her bag. Normally, she would say yes. That was the routine—they’d walk together down the long glass corridor, exit through the south wing, and part ways at the student pickup zone. Chessa’s driver always arrived first. Miri’s car was usually parked across the street. Madeleine’s family sent a different vehicle every week, just to keep her “visually interesting,” according to her.

And Isabelle?

She would wave them off with that small, efficient smile, then cut across the outer steps, walk past the fountain, and descend the long stair path to the metro station. She didn’t mind. It was quiet. Predictable. Hers.

But today was different.

She hesitated just a moment longer than usual.

Then: “No. I need to use the restroom.”

Madeleine blinked. “Oh. Okay.”

Chessa nodded easily. “Ah, makes sense.”

Miri gave a small wave. “See you tomorrow, then. Don’t get trapped in mirror-line traffic—those stalls back up fast after final period.”

“I’ll be fine,” Isabelle said smoothly.

“Later, Rep!” Madeleine called over her shoulder, already halfway out the door.

The three of them disappeared into the hallway, voices trailing off into companionable noise.

Silence settled behind them.

Isabelle didn’t move.

Not toward the hallway. Not toward the restroom.

Instead, she slowly turned her head.

Back to the far row, where a figure still sat.

Black hair, a little unkempt. Blue eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, as if he were still halfway inside a thought he hadn’t finished polishing.

Damien Elford.

Lame as ever.

He hadn’t packed his things yet. Probably hadn’t even started. He just sat there—posture loose, one leg stretched out slightly, hand idly spinning a capped pen against his desk with the kind of casual arrogance only he could make look deliberate.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t shift.

Just stood there, bag strap still looped over one shoulder, her grip loose but not slack.

He was looking at her.

Not at the board, not at the pen he kept twirling, not at the classroom that had emptied down to just the two of them. He was looking at her, and smiling like he already knew the answer to a question she hadn’t asked out loud.

And that irritated her.

Not enough to spark words.

Just enough to keep her still.

Because he was waiting. She knew that. The same way she’d known he hadn’t left on purpose. The same way she knew—without needing confirmation—that this was no accident.

‘….’

The study bet.

Their study bet.

She’d agreed. Begrudgingly. Formally. Like a transaction wrapped in rules.

And today was the start of it.

So why had she lied?

“Restroom,” she had said. A smooth, believable lie. Utterly functional.

Except now here she was, not moving. Not stepping out. Not even pretending anymore.

Why?

She didn’t know.

And she didn’t want to guess.

The question itself felt… dangerous. Like pulling a thread that might unravel something she wasn’t ready to name.

So she didn’t pull it.

She just stood there.

The air between them hung with that quiet weight she hated—something expectant. Open-ended.

Then—

Damien moved.

No rush. No theatrics. He just stood, finally, like he’d waited long enough for the pretense to drop. The chair legs slid back with a lazy scrape. He rolled his shoulder once, flexed the fingers that had been toying with the pen, then tucked it into his jacket pocket like the whole thing had been planned from the start.

And maybe it had.

He walked toward her, unhurried. Confident in that way he always was—like he’d already read the script and decided which parts were worth reciting out loud.

When he reached her side, he didn’t stop until they were close. Closer than classmates. Not quite too close.

He tilted his head slightly.

“Rep,” he said, tone smooth. Unforced.

“Ready?”

The word echoed in the space between them.

Isabelle’s breath was quiet.

She didn’t look at him.

Just shifted her weight, adjusting the strap on her shoulder like it needed realigning.

Then, after a beat—

“…Let’s go,” she said.

And turned.

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