Victim Route-Unlocked

He blinked once, expression unreadable. "Really? That's what you're going with?"

A pause. His mouth twitched—just slightly. "Wi-Fi password?"

He leaned his shoulder against the door frame, eyes steady on me. The silence stretched until it hurt.

My heart thudded loud enough to echo.

He didn't move. Didn't even blink.

And my brain did what it always does—started screaming in subtitles.

He came to my shop. He showed up in my class. He asked me out. He made sure we'd be near his place when it rained. Of course. Of course he planned this.

I could actually hear my pulse. I'm standing in a stranger's apartment, in nothing but an oversized shirt that's about to pop any minute.

I'm about to die.

This is how the true-crime podcasts start.

Why would the hottest guy I've ever met want to hang out with me? Because I'm the victim. I'm the cold open before the theme music.

My throat tightened. "I spent my whole life begging the universe for something interesting to happen to me," I whispered. "I thought maybe isekai, shōjo, even yuri—but no. I get to be the heroine of a Psycho Ren'ai."

He still didn't move.

Then—finally—he sighed. "Haa..."

The sound rolled through the air like exhaustion itself.

He pushed off the frame and started walking toward me, slow and deliberate. I couldn't move. Every instinct screaming BOSS FIGHT INCOMING.

When he reached me, he didn't stop. The towel brushed my face as he dropped it over my head—light, careless, almost polite. It knocked my glasses crooked, and the fabric dimmed the room. I stayed still, like a frozen NPC waiting for the cutscene to end.

And just like that, he was past me.

I heard the quiet scrape of a chair. A soft thud. Papers shifting. Then his voice—flat, matter-of-fact, like a scientist reviewing failed lab results.

"I can't blame you for this. It wasn't working anyway," he said, tone completely detached. "Nothing I tried produced the expected response. Every setup, every trigger point—wrong timing, wrong reaction. Perhaps it's just this place. Everyone smiles, nods, moves on. No emotional engagement. Tedious."

I froze under the towel. It didn't work? What didn't? My brain's supplying every horror movie scenario and none of them are good.

He kept talking—not explaining to me, just... thinking out loud. Clinical. Bored.

Setups. Trigger points.

My pulse stumbled. Wait… is he seriously talking like he's debugging a dating sim?

I couldn't see him, but I could picture the board I'd glimpsed earlier—the one covered in notes and string like a conspiracy theorist's wet dream. Lunch under a tree. Getting shown around after class. Sharing crepes. The bath. Every "coincidence" plotted like checkpoints in a game.

Each one a trigger. Each one deliberate.

No way.

He's been running scenarios. On me. On everyone.

My stomach flipped. Not experiments. Not stalking. Routes. He's literally treating real life like a visual novel.

"The only question is…" His voice shifted—not warmer, but curious. Like he'd found an interesting bug in the code. "What do I do with you now?"

At this point I was visibly shaking.

But not from fear.

I turned, hooked a finger under the towel, and flicked it free. My eyes were huge behind my crooked glasses. My heart was sprinting—not from terror.

From pure, unfiltered, absolutely unhinged joy.

Never in my life had I heard such beautiful trash-manga energy delivered with that much dead-eyed conviction.

This is it. This is the chosen one moment. The protagonist power-up scene. The part where the loser discovers their hidden cheat skill.

Before I knew it, I'd moved. One step. Two. Then I was right in front of him, close enough to see the faint water still clinging to his hair, invading his personal space like a aggro NPC.

"So tell me—are you a secret light-novel author undercover as a high schooler doing field research?" I leaned in, eyes wide, hands gesturing wildly.

"Or a French spy sent to steal Japan's shōjo trade secrets?!" Another step closer, voice rising with each theory. "Or maybe—maybe—you're a reverse-isekai traveler who got stuck here, and the only way home is unlocking the true ending! Which route is it?! Is it?!"

He blinked. Once. Slowly. Like his brain just blue-screened.

I couldn't stop. The words kept pouring out, sparkling and stupid and perfect. This is what Gojo felt like unlocking Reverse Cursed Technique—pure serotonin mainlined straight into my brain. I alone am the honored one.

His chair gave a tiny scrape. He angled back like my enthusiasm had physical mass and he needed to calculate the blast radius. One hand came up between us—not defensive, exactly, just... establishing a safety perimeter.

His gaze flicked to the door, then back to my face. He took a small step back. Tactical retreat.

"Why are you—" He stopped, recalibrated like rebooting a system. "Why are you excited about this?"

A beat. His expression flattened into something between confusion and mild disgust.

"You really are nothing but a hopeless otaku."

He said it like diagnosing a terminal condition.

"YES!" I threw my hands up like I'd just won the lottery. "And you're out here doing PRACTICAL RESEARCH on trash-manga tropes! Do you have any idea how beautiful that is?!"

Before he could respond, I was already knee-deep in his notes—pages flying, brain on overdrive, full anime-character-explaining-the-plot-twist mode.

"Okay okay okay—classic tropes, excellent taste, but terrible execution. None of this would work in real life—especially not with you as the protagonist."

He stood up, and for the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Not warmth—curiosity. Clinical interest. "Explain."

"Obviously! Most protagonists start as losers—unloved, misunderstood, face-planted in the dirt of life. That's the whole point!" I'm pacing now, full lecture mode activated. "People don't root for perfection; they root for the underdog who messes up and still keeps going. The one who trips over their own feet but gets back up. You?"

I spun around and jabbed a finger at him. "You're the deluxe limited edition with all DLC included. You'd clear every route just by existing. No tension, no stakes, no payoff. It's like watching a speedrunner play on god mode—technically impressive but emotionally empty."

He tilted his head, processing. Not agreeing or disagreeing—just... analyzing. Like I'd presented interesting data.

"Hm. I assumed the protagonist was simply whoever the author chose to follow. The one placed in those situations—the tropes, the events. Anyone could fill that role. The only distinction between a main character and background extra is narrative focus."

"That's the surface layer, sure!" I grabbed one of his manga off the shelf, flipping through it. "But readers don't care about someone just because the story says 'this is the main character, root for them now.'"

I found the page I wanted and shoved it at him. "People care because the protagonist fails first. They're built from humiliation, not spotlight. They trip in the hallway. Confess and get rejected. Fail the exam. Miss every single flag and only realize it three volumes later."

I looked up at him, and he's actually listening—like, really listening, in that focused way that makes you feel like the only person in the room.

"That gap? Between who they are and who they want to be? That's the empathy fuel. It's what makes you root for them—because we've all been there. We've all failed at something, felt like we weren't enough, and had to keep going anyway. That's the connection."

I tapped the manga cover. "You, on the other hand? You start at the top. There's no climb, no ache, no struggle for readers to grab onto. You're already what they wish they could be. There's nothing to root for because you've already won."

He looked at me for a long moment, genuinely confused. "We've all failed at something?"

The words hung between us like a glitch in the simulation.

Wait.

Wait wait wait.

Maybe he actually hasn't? Is that even possible? Has this guy literally never experienced failure? Like, ever?

That's... that's actually tragic. In a weird, twisted, very trash-manga kind of way.

He moved back to the chair and sat down, silent. Processing. I stood there, equally confused, watching the most perfect human I've ever met look like someone just told him gravity was optional.

Then he looked up at me with those empty, calculating eyes.

"I know what I'm going to do with you."

The temperature in the room dropped five degrees.

I gulped. Oh right—I'd kind of forgotten I broke into his secret lair while wearing his shirt and no pants. Minor detail.

"You, Tanaka Shizuka," he said, voice flat and certain, "are going to become my accomplice."

"I'm gonna become what? An accomplice to what? Wait—do I have a choice?!" The words tumbled out in rapid-fire panic.

He stood with that effortless, terrifying calm, walking toward me. I leaned back against the desk as he came closer—too close, invading my personal space like it was a strategic decision. His voice dropped.

"You can refuse."

Pause. His eyes locked onto mine.

"But you won't."

He leaned in closer, and I could feel his breath near my ear. Not romantic—predatory. Calculated.

"Aren't you tired of just reading about life?" His voice was quiet, almost gentle, but with an edge underneath. "Don't you want to experience it yourself?"

My brain flatlined. This is the bad ending route. This is where I click the wrong choice and get the yandere flag.

But also—

Also also also—

This is the most interesting thing that's ever happened to me and if I say no I'm going back to my boring life where nothing ever happens and I'll die having never done anything worth remembering—

"Follow me," he said, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. No warmth. Just certainty. "And you'll have excitement beyond your wildest dreams."

He straightened, and for a split second, that cold mask cracked into something almost like a smirk. Not friendly. Knowing.

He knew he'd won before I'd even answered.

And the worst part?

He was right.

Next Episode: The Accomplice Flag