Chapter 11: A True Protag-Kun

Part 1

Soren stepped out of the arcade center, but the "Stage Clear" music didn't follow him.

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.

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 moon 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 pushing 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 potted plant shook.

Sera 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.

A vending machine hummed suspiciously.

Erika stood beside it, holding a city’s guide upside‑down, studying it with the intensity of someone decoding forbidden scripture. Her sunglasses slid down her nose; she pushed them up without breaking character.

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.

Soren stared at them.

They stared back.

A long, painful silence stretched between them.

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

“…Why are they 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 way, Soren noticed a sign for the public restrooms. It glowed like a beacon of sanctuary.

The Men’s Room.

The one place in this consumerist labyrinth where women wouldn’t typically follow.

Soren didn't just walk; he performed a low-profile shuffle, his shoulders hunching toward his ears as he made a break for the blue-and-white tiled entrance. He reached the door, his hand trembling as he reached for the handle, certain that he was seconds away from a clean getaway.

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

Soren froze, his fingers inches from the door handle. A micro-beat of pure, crystalline terror washed over him. He turned his head just enough to see Olivia swinging forward on her crutches with terrifying momentum, her eyes locked on the Men's Room door with the intensity of a soldier breaching a bunker.

Sera immediately lunged out, her perfect smile shattering into a mask of panic. She grabbed the back of Olivia’s outfit, her heels skidding against the tile. At the same time, Erika appeared from behind a vending machine, her head tilting at a sharp angle as she grabbed Olivia’s other shoulder, anchoring her to the spot.

"Let go! I’m the Vanguard of the party!" Olivia protested, her legs kicking uselessly in the air as she was held back.

"Olivia, no!" Sera’s voice hissed from behind a nearby decorative pillar.

"What? It’s chill! This is where the hero and the rival have their mid-season heart-to-heart! It’s fine! Besides—" Olivia looked over her shoulder at her friends, her bangs puffing up with a confident huff.

"—I used to be a dude! It’s basically my old territory!"

Sera’s left eye gave a violent, rhythmic twitch. She tightened her grip on Olivia’s collar, her knuckles turning white. "That is not how biology works, Olivia! And that is definitely not how the law works! You are crossing a legal boundary!"

Soren stared at them, his elbows tucked tight against his ribs. The "Horror Movie" had just turned into a "Zany Sitcom," and he was the only one who wasn't laughing.

The men beside him were patiently looking at the scene unfolding as if all of the stalls had been filled.

That only caused Soren to not go inside.

He couldn’t.

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

He slowly pulled his hand back from the door handle, his middle finger twitching in a rhythmic, anxious tick. He performed a perfect, mechanical 180-degree pivot on his heel, his 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's a high-probability arrest scenario," Erika added, her voice a flat, robotic monotone as she maintained her anchor-grip on Olivia's shoulder. She blinked slowly, three times, her gaze shifting from Olivia to Soren’s retreating back.

Soren didn't run.

Running invited pursuit.

Instead, he executed a high-speed power walk. He moved toward the open-air mezzanine, desperate for the safety of a wider space where he couldn't be cornered.

Part 3

Soren made it ten more steps before he stopped again.

Clack-clack-clack.

They were moving again.

The "Hit Squad" had stabilized.

He reached the center of the mezzanine, directly beneath the giant glass skylight. Moonlight spilled down in a cold, indifferent beam, illuminating him like a man awaiting divine judgment.

“If you’re going to follow me,” Soren said, voice cracking under the strain of a man who had reached his limit, “at least stop pretending to be ninjas.”

Silence.

He slowly turned.

The trio froze like they’d been caught by a 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. Her left eye twitched — a tiny, microscopic spasm that betrayed the social meltdown brewing beneath her polished exterior.

Erika stood perfectly still, her head tilted at that eerie 45‑degree angle, as if she were buffering. Her sunglasses reflected the skylight, hiding her eyes entirely.

And Olivia...

Olivia leaned heavily on her crutches, her face a shade of magenta that matched the SALE signs in the windows. Her bangs puffed upward with a sharp, sheepish exhale.

“We weren’t— I mean—” Sera started, performing a sharp hair‑tuck behind her ear, the gesture stiff with mortification. “We were simply… providing Olivia with a tactical opening to speak with you.”

“A tactical opening,” Soren repeated, his 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 say sorry 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, her expression apologetic and worried. “We really are sorry.”

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

Soren adjusted his glasses, flustered. “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, her 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, her bangs puffing up with a determined huff. “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, her 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!”