Chapter 6:

Hidden Plot's Confusion

I, A Detective, Become A Villainess In Another World!



“Are you really suggesting that...” I said slowly, 

“I, Clarisse von Fahrmann, would make such a foolish mistake… and then admit to it as if it were a crime, Elysia?”

Her entire body went still. Shoulders tensed. Spine straightened. Chest stiffened.

She looked… rattled.

Did I just intimidate her?

Me? Intimidating?

Oh, come on. There is no way.

This wasn’t even an interrogation I would usually do back in those days.

Just a casual banter—maybe with a side of psychological manipulation.

Nothing too serious.

Apparently, she had attempted to deceive me—throwing me right into her snare.
Bold of her not to realize that she was the one in trouble for testing my knowledge.
Not me. Never me. I stopped trusting anyone since I was young—too passionate and far too naïve.
To me, everything fell into two categories: harmful or harmless.
Ever since I was a kid, I could sense threats—even from those who smiled at me. Friends, rivals, teachers—it didn’t matter. In my eyes, everything was either harmful or harmless.

“Oh my... how tempting.”
That final line might just be the perfect way to finish her—tie it all together with her little atrocity.
See, since I was a kid, I’ve always been able to sense threats, whether they came from friends or enemies.
So, if something wasn’t harmful, then it had to be good... right?

Wrong. Sometimes, what seems harmless is just poison in disguise. Wrapped in sugary sweetness. Made to look like candy.
In other words, harmless doesn’t mean safe. Because sometimes poison comes wrapped in candy.
Then again, sometimes the opposite is true.
In the end, everything is harmful. It just depends on how you look at it.

This—this—is exactly why I admire the beauty behind crimes committed by people like us.
One moment, you’ve got an innocent kid. The next? That same kid stabs someone through the heart.
Even the kindest soul can snap and commit the unthinkable if it means helping someone else get revenge.

That’s just human nature. No more, no less.

And yeah—everything I’m saying? It’s not theory. It’s based on real sh*t I’ve seen.
You see, there was this girl. A daughter. She murdered both her parents. Slipped under their bed while they were sleeping and stabbed them to death with a kitchen knife.
She was only nine.

The reason? Oh, of course—it sounded innocent.
“I just wanted to make them happy!”
She cried. Loudly. Screeching, really.
It was so f*cking annoying, we could all hear it echo down the halls.
Turned out she’d discovered a bunch of hidden debts her parents were keeping from her. She thought killing them would fix things.

Tragic, right?
Tragic? Please. That doesn’t even compare to when that a**hole f*cked me in the bed, vanished, and left me pregnant—only to show up later, tossing money at the problem like it could make the situation any better.
He even had the audacity to come back waving it around like that would’ve fixed anything!

Then—
Wait. Why the hell am I telling you all of this?
Meh. Doesn’t matter.

Here’s the point I’m making:
Every single human being is a threat to someone. That’s just how people work.
They can never truly trust each other. Ever.

[CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE DISCOVERED THE HIDDEN PLOT!]

Okay, what the hell is this again?
Hidden plot? Never in my life have I heard of anything like this.
I mean, I’m not even a writer—how the f**k would I know sh*t about this?!

[You don’t have to. Also, ma’am, please calm down the cussing.]

No, what do you mean I don’t have to? And no, I’ll keep cussing the inconsistency out of you.
It doesn’t matter whether you’re a system inside my head. It’s total nonsense already.
I’m just done putting up with this bullcrap now.

[Anyway, as for the explanation: It happens that you have unveiled a plot that is hidden from the audience and only known by those with great reading comprehension skills. And that’s what a hidden plot means.]

Ah yes, the floor is made out of the floor.

Of course I know what hidden plot f***ing means, my boy. However, that’s not the point.

Because, deducing from the term itself, it was quite predictable.

But the thing is—should I let you know that I literally know nothing about writing?

Please, just be for real.

You can’t casually throw around terms you’d only find in some random article I’ve never read and expect me to swallow it like food you bought from a five-star restaurant.

If anything, all of this just confused me!

Shake my head.

I mean, seriously. If you're going to toss literary jargon at me, at least give me that f***ing manual if not a guide walkthrough. Or subtitles, captions what ever. 

Maybe even a pop-up glossary to read would do.

But nope—just some floating disembodied, monotone system voice tossing words like “plot device” and “narrative technique” at me like I’m supposed to nod and go, “Ah, yes. Brilliant writing. Totally get it.”

Now, what's next? Are you gonna tell me I’m an unreliable narrator in this story too? That nothing I see is actually real? That the trauma wasn’t even mine to begin with?

[Actually…]

Don’t. You. F***king. Dare.

I swear, if this turns out into one of those stories where I’m just a puppet in some fancy tragic backstory twist, I will personally rip the fourth wall down and slay whoever’s writing this.

[Noted. We will keep the fourth wall structurally intact—for now.]

Tch. You know what? Screw this. I’m not gonna play along with this BS anymore. If there is a hidden plot, then fine—be it. Let it slide. 

But please, stay hidden. Since I’ve got some real problems here.

Like bills. And bloodstains. 

And the fact that I’ve been addicted to caffeine and soda since last Thursday.

I’m not some chosen one. I’m not special. I don’t have “main character” energy.

Let alone some kind of savior who will save the world.

What I am is a person who’s been used, lied to, broken, and still somehow expected to smile through it. So don’t you dare turn this into some grand revelation scene.

Because if this is a story, then it’s mine.

And I will decide how it ends. In my own way.