Chapter 11: A True Protag-Kun

Part 1

The moment Soren stepped out of the arcade center the “Stage Clear” music didn’t follow him, it warned him of the upcoming boss battle ahead.

The mall corridor stretched out in front of him — wide, echoing, and too quiet. The air smelled like synthetic lemon floor wax, and somewhere in the distance, an industrial vacuum hummed with the low, predatory patience of something waiting for prey to wander too far from safety.

He took three steps.

Then stopped.

Clack.

Soren’s right eye twitched.

He knew that sound now.

He feared that sound now.

A faint, unwelcome memory flickered — the same clack echoing behind him earlier, the same tightening in his chest. His fingers curled reflexively, like his body was bracing for impact before his mind caught up.

He walked past a department store, his reflection sliding across the darkened glass like a ghost trying to keep up. He looked small. Vulnerable. He hooked his thumbs into the collar of his jacket, pulling it up until it brushed his jaw — a reflex he only used when the world felt like it was looking at him with teeth.

Clack.

He turned his head a fraction.

Nothing.

Just the empty mezzanine, the sun glaring down through the skylight like an indifferent witness.

He resumed walking, faster this time — but the sound sharpened.

Clack‑clack.

His breath hitched.

His sneakers squeaked against the polished tile — loud, traitorous, panicked.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

“Hurry, hurry…” a female voice hissed.

The words ricocheted off the marble walls like a hammer cocking.

Soren didn’t turn.

His index finger twitched, reflexively nudging his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose.

Rule #1 of survival: Do not acknowledge the stalker.

He quickened his pace.

“Don’t let him spot you,” another voice whispered.

Clack‑clack‑clack.

The cadence matched his own.

It was closing in with mechanical precision.

Cold sweat prickled under his jacket.

He felt a gaze on the back of his neck — not a casual glance, but the heavy, focused weight of something tracking its target.

“The target has no idea,” a third voice murmured.

Soren closed his eyes.

No.

No, no, no.

I just want to go home.

He turned around fully this time.

A vending machine hummed suspiciously.

Sera stood beside it, holding a city guide upside‑down, studying it with the intensity of someone decoding forbidden scripture. Her glasses slid down her nose; she pushed them up without breaking character. A tiny hum escaped her — thoughtful, analytical — as if she were mentally logging Soren’s reaction time.

A potted plant shook.

Erika froze behind it — half‑visible, half‑crouched, her eyes wide like a startled woodland creature. The plant was far too small to hide her, but she clung to it anyway, fingers digging into the ceramic pot as if sheer willpower could make her invisible. Her smile was stretched too tight, too bright — and for a split second, her expression flickered into something rawer, something almost pleading, before snapping back into place.

And Olivia—

Olivia was crouched behind a trash can that barely reached her knees, her crutches sticking out like twin antennae. She gave him a covert thumbs‑up, bangs puffing with pride.

Soren stared at them.

They stared back.

A long, painful silence stretched between them.

Soren exhaled through his nose — the sound of a man whose soul had quietly left his body.

“…Why are girls like this…”

He turned away and kept walking, hoping — praying — they’d get bored.

They did not.

The trio followed him with the stealth of a marching band.

Part 2

Along the mezzanine, Soren spotted a sign glowing like a divine blessing from the heavens:

MEN’S RESTROOM.

A sanctuary.

A refuge.

A place where women would not — should not — follow.

He didn’t walk toward it. He executed a low‑profile escape shuffle, shoulders hunched, steps quick and silent, like a man trying to slip past a sleeping dragon.

His pulse thudded in his ears — a dull, rhythmic echo that matched the clack of crutches behind him. His fingers tingled with that familiar, creeping numbness he got whenever social chaos reached critical mass.

He reached the door as his hand trembled as he reached for the handle.

Freedom.

Safety.

A clean getaway.

“Oh! A safe point!” a voice chirped from the shadows. “I’ll go too!”

Soren froze.

A micro‑beat of pure, crystalline terror washed over him — the kind that made his vision tighten at the edges.

He turned his head just enough to see Olivia swinging forward on her crutches with terrifying momentum, eyes locked on the Men’s Room door like a soldier preparing to breach a bunker.

Sera lunged out immediately, her perfect smile shattering into a mask of panic. She grabbed the back of Olivia’s outfit, heels skidding across the tile. Her voice cracked — just slightly — betraying the strain of trying to maintain social order while her sanity frayed at the edges.

At the same time, Erika emerged from behind a vending machine, her head tilting at a sharp, unnatural angle as she grabbed Olivia’s other shoulder. Her sunglasses reflected the fluorescent lights, but her posture radiated a quiet, clinical judgment — as if she were mentally calculating the legal consequences in real time.

“Let go! I’m the Vanguard of the party!” Olivia protested, legs kicking uselessly in the air.

“Olivia, no!” Sera hissed from behind a decorative pillar, voice pitched high with the desperation of someone trying to prevent a public relations disaster.

“What? It’s chill! This is where the hero and the rival have their mid‑season heart‑to‑heart! Besides—” Olivia puffed up proudly, bangs lifting with confidence, “—I used to be a dude! It’s basically my old territory!”

Sera’s left eye twitched violently. She tightened her grip on Olivia’s collar, knuckles whitening. “That is not how biology works, Olivia! And that is definitely not how the law works! You are crossing a legal boundary!”

Erika nodded once, solemnly. “There is a high likelihood of an arrest scenario.”

Soren stared at them, elbows tucked tight against his ribs. The “horror movie” he’d been living in had just transformed into a “zany sitcom,” and he was the only one who wasn’t laughing.

Two men waiting nearby watched the scene unfold with the calm resignation of people who had accepted that all the stalls were full and fate was cruel.

That alone was enough to stop Soren from going inside.

He couldn’t.

The sanctuary of the Men’s Room had been tainted — forever — by the mental image of Olivia “breaching the bunker” based on a past life that definitely only existed in her head.

He slowly withdrew his hand from the door handle, middle finger twitching in a rhythmic, anxious tick. Then he performed a perfect, mechanical 180‑degree pivot on his heel, eyes fixed on a point exactly three inches above the horizon to avoid eye contact with the chaos.

“It’s not territory!” Sera hissed, still wrestling with Olivia’s blazer. “It’s a misdemeanor!”

“It is,” Erika added, “also a violation of several mall policies.”

Soren didn’t run.

Running invited pursuit.

Instead, he executed a high‑speed power walk toward the open‑air mezzanine — desperate for the safety of a wider space where he couldn’t be cornered.

Part 3

Soren had barely made it ten steps before the clacking resumed behind him — steady, synchronized, and absolutely not stealthy.

He stopped.

“If you’re going to follow me,” he said, voice cracking under the strain of a man whose sanity was hanging by a thread, “at least stop pretending to be ninjas.”

Silence.

He turned.

The trio froze like they’d been caught by a police spotlight.

They stood five paces back, arranged in a jagged, chaotic line.

Sera clutched her hand mirror, her perfect smile flickering like a dying neon sign. Erika stood perfectly still, head tilted at a precise 45‑degree angle, as if buffering. And Olivia…

Olivia leaned heavily on her crutches, face flushed a deep magenta that matched the SALE signs in the windows. Her bangs puffed upward with a sharp, sheepish exhale, the sound of someone who had absolutely no idea what she’d done wrong but was ready to apologize for it anyway.

“We weren’t— I mean—” Sera began, performing a stiff, panicked hair‑tuck. The gesture was too sharp, too rehearsed — a social reflex she was clinging to like a lifeline. “We were simply… providing Olivia with a tactical opening to speak with you.”

“A tactical opening,” Soren repeated, elbows tucking tight to his ribs.

Olivia inhaled dramatically.

“I… want to apologize.”

Soren blinked. “For what, exactly?”

Erika and Sera nodded at Olivia with the frantic energy of parents urging a toddler to apologize to a cashier.

Olivia took another deep breath.

“For accusing you of being a child predator!”

Soren nearly choked on air.

A couple walking by slowed, stared, then hurried away like they’d stumbled into a crime scene.

Erika bowed stiffly. “We sincerely regret the misunderstanding.”

Sera bowed too — softer, more apologetic, but with a tightness around her eyes that hinted at deeper panic. Her voice wavered, just barely. “We really are sorry.”

Olivia bowed so fast she nearly toppled forward. “And for the life‑debt thing! Twice!”

Soren adjusted his glasses, flustered. His fingers trembled — a small, involuntary tremor he couldn’t hide anymore. “It’s—really, it’s fine. You don’t need to—”

But Olivia wasn’t done.

She slammed a fist over her heart with heroic conviction.

“Soren,” she said, voice dropping into a solemn, reverent register that made his skin crawl. “Your modesty is a shield. But as a former hero, I must repay all debts.”

Soren’s shoulders hunched even higher under the cold glare of the skylight. He felt like a specimen under a microscope — or worse, a bug about to be pinned to a board.

“What are you talking about?” he croaked, hooking his thumbs into his pockets like they were life preservers.

“No,” Olivia whispered, stepping forward. Her crutches made a slow, deliberate clack‑clack that sounded like a drumroll. She leaned in, bangs puffing with determined fervor. “I saw the arcade. I saw how you handled Marie and her brother. You weren’t just helping — you were managing. You’re a Protagonist, Soren. Specifically, the ‘OP’ type who doesn’t realize he’s the center of the universe.”

“That’s not—”

“A true Protag‑kun,” she whispered reverently.

Behind her, Sera’s perfect smile tightened into a thin, vibrating line. She performed another sharp hair‑tuck, fingers trembling slightly. “Olivia, we discussed this in the bushes. We were going to apologize for the ‘predator’ comment and ask for his phone contact.”

“This is bigger than getting someone’s number, Sera!” Olivia declared, gesturing grandly with a crutch — a micro‑gesture of chaotic energy that nearly toppled her. “Since I owe him a life‑debt — and since he clearly needs a party — I’ve decided to fix his destiny.”

She pointed a crutch at Soren like a divine decree.

“Soren! I’m going to make you into the next Harem King!”