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

The final chime of the bell rang clear and crisp, slicing the end of the lecture cleanly. Just like that, the room shifted. Pens dropped, pages flipped shut, chairs creaked as students stretched, stood, and began their usual migration toward the cafeteria.

Damien didn't move.

He remained in his seat, calm and deliberate, while the ambient hum of conversation began to rise. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the bento box Elysia had prepared for him that morning. Neatly packed, balanced, and always warm from the subtle heat-preserving enchantment in the box. A minor alchemical touch, but thoughtful. Like everything she did.

He popped the lid.

The aroma hit him instantly—soft, savory. Perfectly seasoned vegetables, grilled meat layered over rice, and that familiar, quiet warmth that came from food made by someone who truly knew him.

He didn't miss Elysia's meals. Ever.

Just as he was about to take his first bite, a shadow fell over his desk.

He looked up lazily.

Moren.

Standing there with fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight, eyes locked onto Damien like a predator trying to convince itself it wasn't afraid.

Damien didn't bother masking his disinterest.

"Need something?" he asked dryly, without even pausing his movements—just slowly lifting a slice of meat with his chopsticks, gaze half-lidded.

Moren's lip curled. "Tch."

And then he turned and walked away, muttering something under his breath.

Damien shrugged. 'He's like a broken radio at this point.'

If he really wanted to beat Moren down—physically, verbally—he could. Easily. But… why bother? The guy wasn't worth the energy. Not right now.

He took his first bite and leaned back in his chair slightly, savoring the quiet.

Then the classroom slowly thinned, the last of the chatter bleeding out into the corridor. The soft thump of a door closing somewhere down the hall marked the official transition into lunch break. Another pocket of silence settled over the room.

Damien didn't need to scan the classroom to know she was still there.

He could feel her.

And sure enough, when he glanced across the rows of mostly empty desks—there she was. Isabelle Moreau, perched at her seat with her lunch laid out before her, just as meticulously organized as everything else about her. She hadn't budged when the bell rang. Hadn't rushed to join the tide heading toward overpriced cafeteria food. She never did.

Her lunch today was as minimalistic and efficient as ever—hand-packed from home, carefully divided into compartments. Nothing extravagant. No frills. Just simple nutrition, chosen with quiet purpose.

Damien's lips curled slightly.

She didn't notice his gaze at first, too focused on arranging her chopsticks neatly over a napkin.

But eventually, she looked up—and caught him staring.

She frowned, sharp and immediate. "What?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "What, what?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Why are you looking at me?"

Damien shrugged, still seated. "Because I've decided I'll be your dining companion today."

That made her blink.

And before she could issue a rebuttal, he stood—bento in hand—and crossed the space between them, weaving through the desks with the grace of someone who had already made himself at home in places he didn't belong.

He pulled out the chair beside her and sat down without waiting for permission.

Isabelle stared at him like he had just barged into a meeting of nobles without knocking.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked, voice tight.

"Eating," Damien replied simply, lifting another bite of grilled meat to his mouth. "With you."

Her eyes narrowed further. "You have your own seat."

"I do," he agreed, chewing slowly. "But your table has the better company."

"That's not how this works."

He gestured with his chopsticks vaguely. "You eat here. I eat here. It works."

Isabelle closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, her tone dropped a few degrees colder. "This is my personal space."

He leaned back just a bit, smirking. "Then it's my lucky day. I've just been invited into the royal chambers of House Moreau."

"That is not an invitation."

He gave a slow, exaggerated look around the otherwise empty classroom.

"Don't see a guard at the gates. Not even a polite sign that says 'Trespassers will be glared at.'"

She stared.

He grinned.

For a brief moment, silence stretched again. Only the soft clink of their chopsticks and the distant hum of hallway noise filled the room.

"Fine."

Isabelle sighed through her nose, lifting a bite of rice with the same clean precision she applied to everything in her life. Her expression didn't shift much, but something about her posture loosened—just slightly.

"Well," she muttered, barely louder than the hum of the lights overhead, "I've eaten beside you before. Might as well do it again."

Damien grinned quietly to himself. "Progress."

"I wouldn't go that far."

The two of them lapsed into silence for a moment, the soft rustle of their containers the only noise. The classroom remained mostly empty, a rare pocket of stillness in a school usually saturated with performance and pressure. Isabelle's food was methodical—vegetables sectioned into quarters, proteins arranged by density, not a grain of rice out of place. Damien's, though packed with care by Elysia, looked decidedly more casual—he held his chopsticks lazily, posture relaxed, half-slouched like he was lounging at home instead of sharing a table with the school's most disciplined student.

Isabelle noticed.

Of course she did.

And before she could stop herself, the words left her mouth like muscle memory.

"About earlier."

Damien raised an eyebrow, pausing mid-bite. "Earlier?"

"Math class," she said sharply, giving him a sidelong glance. "You looked like you were two seconds from slipping into a coma. Again."

Damien blinked. Then let out a soft laugh. "And here I was thinking we were enjoying a peaceful lunch."

"I don't have time to enjoy things when the person I've made a wager with behaves like a half-sedated sloth," she snapped, but there wasn't real heat in it. Just that clipped, scolding tone she reserved for the hopelessly inefficient. "Is that how you treat your bet?"

He didn't flinch. "I treat my bets seriously."

"Heh." She gave him a dry look. "You looked awfully sleepy and lazy for someone aiming to hit top twenty-five."

Damien stabbed a piece of grilled eggplant, unfazed. "Sleeping in class and preparing for exams aren't mutually exclusive, Rep."

"That's a poor excuse," Isabelle countered immediately. "The attitude you show in class reflects the seriousness you carry home."

He leaned back slightly, tilting his head as he chewed. Then swallowed and spoke.

"I disagree."

She blinked.

Damien continued, "Attitude in class is a performance. Doesn't mean it's meaningless, but it's not the full story. You think just because someone stares at the board and takes color-coded notes, they're actually learning something? Maybe. But not always. Some people study better when no one's watching."

Isabelle frowned, quiet for a moment.

Then, slowly: "So what are you saying? That I should believe you're one of those mysterious self-taught prodigies just because you say so?"

"I'm saying," Damien said with a slow smirk, "that you can't measure everything by surface metrics, Class Rep. If you want to judge my effort, wait for the results."

She looked at him for a long second, eyes narrowed behind her glasses.

Isabelle's chopsticks paused mid-air, her gaze still fixed on Damien with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for forensics labs and interrogation rooms.

"That's exactly what a fraudulent person would say," she said sharply, voice clipped with the certainty of someone used to calling out flaws in logic. "When they don't want to be measured, they reject the metrics. That's how people lie. They avoid the pattern."

Damien chuckled—low, amused, and completely unoffended.

"You're not wrong," he said, setting his chopsticks down for a moment. "Pattern recognition is vital. For success, for safety, for survival."

She nodded, waiting for the pivot.

And it came.

"But," Damien continued, leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms against the edge of the desk, "every good system should account for one thing: the appearance of a singularity. An outlier. Someone who doesn't fit the pattern—not because they're faking it, but because they never belonged to it in the first place."

Isabelle tilted her head. "You're saying you're that person?"

"I'm saying," Damien said, eyes gleaming now, "you'd be surprised how often the so-called system gets blindsided by the thing it thought was impossible."

She studied him, quiet again—but not in dismissal.

In consideration.

Because something in the way he said it didn't feel like posturing.

He wasn't boasting.

He was informing her of something inevitable.

Isabelle exhaled slowly. "Statistically speaking, singularities are rare."

"They are," Damien agreed. "But you only need one to break the curve."

He picked up another bite of food and popped it into his mouth like he hadn't just tossed a philosophical grenade into the middle of their lunch.