chapter 1. “Furniture Doesn’t Usually Stare Back”

[Anomaly eliminated. Host, thank you for your service.]

The system's voice echoed in my head—like a lazy boss sending you a Slack message just to take credit for your work. No bonus, no praise, just a cold line of digital indifference.

And me? I’m just a low-level employee in a massive company called “Narrative World.” Zero salary, sky-high KPIs, and the only reward is a robotic voice colder than a morgue fridge.

Today's task was simple—by the world’s absurd standards, of course.

I had to set up a “moment of fate.” The classic script: male protagonist helps a clumsy freshman after she falls, takes her to the infirmary, then—surprise!—the heroine walks in. Sparks fly, destiny begins, yadda yadda.

The world calls it sweet. I call it... emotional propaganda dressed as teen drama.

As usual, I executed flawlessly. A small puddle, a slightly tilted tile, a misstep from Oliver. Our male lead reacts—internally in slow motion, of course. The dialogue? Trademarked and exported to fifty parallel realities.

I watched from a distance, barely holding back laughter.

Why is it always guys like him who become the center of the universe? Can’t fight, can’t think, too naive to function. But somehow, he radiates that “chick magnet” energy.

I’m not even sure ants would gather around this guy if they knew the sugar was actually salt.

But hey—none of my business.

I did my job. The system’s happy. The world’s happy. Oliver? Totally irrelevant.

Still, I didn’t leave. I liked watching these little scenes—so-called “spontaneous moments” cooked up by the world. It’s a bad habit. But not worse than a system forcing everyone to live life like a recycled script.

The concrete bench outside the infirmary was my usual spot. Not because it was comfortable—but because it offered a perfect view of the world’s fake rom-com, all without buying popcorn.

The infirmary window—frosted just enough for that dramatic blur—revealed the entrance of the heroine.

Slow steps. A messy gray hoodie. Blond hair like it got trimmed by spite. Her face screamed: Don’t talk to me or I’ll ruin your self-esteem in five words or less.

This is the heroine? No warmth. No concern. No—god help us—plot compliance.

Inside, Oliver lay like a soap opera victim. Raymond—the real male lead—stood by him, in a “caring best friend” pose straight from a hospital brochure.

The moment the girl entered, Raymond flashed his signature hero smile: warm, soft, and mass-produced in emotional factories. His dialogue? Pure copy-paste.

But she didn’t blush. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t fake politeness.

She looked at him like she just found expired milk in the fridge.

No panic. No sympathy. Just a quick scan of Oliver, and then—before she left—she paused at the doorway.

Turned.

And stared straight at me.

Her eyes locked onto my position—even though I was in invisible mode, standard protocol.

She started walking toward me. Slowly. Eyes still sharp enough to cut steel.

“You’re standing there like a health campaign poster... with stalker energy.”

Her name was Colette. Maybe she was talking to someone else. But there was no one else. And she pointed her chin directly at me.

“Visitor? Or just another piece of school furniture?”

“I’m inspecting the room’s architecture. Let’s say I’m just passing by,” I answered calmly, trying to sound... normal.

“Ah, so you’re the new décor. Though cabinets usually don’t glare like they want to dismantle your soul.”

This girl talked like she was paid per word, but fined for every raised eyebrow. Sarcasm was clearly her native language—and I was pretty sure she could win an argument with a photocopier.

“Don’t worry. I respect your dedication. You’re clearly one of Oliver’s fans.”

The way she folded her arms and stared made me feel like she was re-evaluating my entire species. Annoying? Yes. But I could compromise. For reasons I still refused to admit...

I was starting to suspect the system had glitched. Or maybe she was an untagged anomaly.

“You seem awfully calm for someone being watched,” I tested, half-curious.

“I study law. Being watched is an occupational hazard.” She raised an eyebrow. “Now it’s my turn. Who are you?”

I glanced behind her. There was a student council poster with “GRISELDA” in bold at the corner.

“Griselda. Computer Science. Second year.”

“Then you should call me senpai. I’m in my third semester.”

“That’s barely a difference.”

“But worlds apart in generation.”

She looked around, then turned toward the inside of the room and sat down on the front desk. Still watching me.

“Anyway. Help me out for a sec.”

Without waiting for a reply, she pointed at a medicine box.

“The nurse’s missing. Can’t leave meds unattended. I can’t carry everything alone.”

Of course. The heroine had been scripted to be the outcast. Because in this world, all things revolve around Raymond—the budget sun of a fake solar system.

The world had reduced this girl into background trash just to shine up its half-baked hero.

Irony? No. This was a full-on insult typed with vengeful fingers.

“I’ve got stuff to do. Ask someone else,” I said, trying the classic disinterested male lead tone.

“I didn’t randomly ask you to be my assistant, obviously.”

She leaned back against the wall like an exhausted mafia boss. Arms crossed, confidence of a cafeteria tyrant.

“I could just tell Raymond there’s a creep lurking around with a bandage fetish. You know, the aesthetic infirmary stalker type.”

I stared. Weighed my options. One side of my brain screamed: “This is dumb.” The other: “But highly effective.”

“That guy’s a walking rumor mill. You’d be famous by Friday,” she added.

And she was right. Fame meant more work. More tracking. More tasks. No thanks.

“You’re good at writing scenes,” I muttered, defeated. At least this little task wouldn’t crash the plot.

“I’m a law student. Convincing fiction is a core skill.”

The medicine box was light. Or maybe my body was built to carry existential burdens. Either way—don’t get the wrong idea. I didn’t help her because I cared. It was just for the script.

We walked down the corridor.

A familiar voice called out.

“Colette!”

Raymond. Walk stiff, smile softer. Trying hard to make this feel coincidental.

“I’ve got movie tickets this weekend. If you’re free...”

The classic scene. Male lead invites heroine to the movies.

“Ah... that’s sweet of you, but I’ve got plans.”

Boom.

She just derailed the script. And the system... didn’t react.

“Sorry, but we have to go. Picking up meds.”

“We?” Raymond blinked. “You’re alone—”

I forgot. Still in invisible mode.

Colette turned to me.

“Ohh... your friend’s behind you,” Raymond added.

“You might need glasses. We’ll be going now.”

Her voice was light. No hesitation. No pause. Like she’d already planned the rejection the moment she saw Raymond’s silhouette.

She grabbed my sleeve.

“Come on, Griselda. I’m hungry.”

Wait.

What?

She pulled me like a pet. Great. I was now the invisible emotional support dog.

Her fingers were small—warm. Not burning, but... the kind of warmth that made you realize maybe you’d never been touched by someone who meant it before. Annoying. I was supposed to be immune to this emotional nonsense.

“Why’d you turn him down?” I asked, half-hoping for a dumb scripted answer.

“He’s not my type.”

“Then who is?”

She turned. A small smirk. The kind you give when watching a kitten trip—or when someone embarrasses themselves.

“My type? Maybe the kind who stands still staring at me like a statue... without realizing how desperate they look.”

I choked on air. Not from embarrassment. Don’t be ridiculous. Just... mildly disturbed this world didn’t come with an undo button. Highly unprofessional.

“You’re oddly specific,” I muttered. “Like that really happened.”

She didn’t answer. Just kept walking beside me.

The evening breeze passed through the trees, making her sleeve sway gently. Her steps calm. Too calm.

Then her voice cut through. Soft—but sharp.

“Because it did happen.”

She stared ahead. No more sarcasm. Her voice changed—light, but cold.

“Sometimes I feel like this world’s stuck on repeat. Always about Raymond. Same recycled lines, different faces. And me... I stay the same, no matter how hard I try to change.”

Ah. I knew it. She’s an anomaly. But this one... she’s rare. The kind that makes you want to observe a little longer.

“So you hate being controlled by rules,” I said, testing her. Just a professional observation, of course.

“If the rules make sense, I’ll follow. If not... I’d rather be the virus.” She shrugged. “And you? Interesting life?”

“Efficient. Like an algorithm.”

“Then we’re the same.”

I waited. People like her usually followed up with cheesy lines like, “Maybe we were meant to meet.”

But no—she was worse.

“Two static characters who know this script is broken.”

I went silent. Not out of sentiment. Just... because for once, I felt insulted and complimented—in the same sentence.