I never asked to be the hero. Honestly, I didn't even want to be noticed. My whole life strategy was built on staying invisible—like a side character, a human screensaver. But apparently, someone up there decided I should suffer a plot development arc.
Now I couldn't walk ten feet in the courtyard without someone whispering my name.
"Did you hear? He exposed the data thief in the Puzzle Club."
"He's scary smart. Like, psycho genius smart."
"No way, that guy? The weird one with the deadpan face?"
It was like watching someone slowly paint a character profile on me using leftover colors from better protagonists. Some saw me as a savior. Others saw me as the final boss. Either way, they were looking. And I hated that.
I kept my head down, poking a hole into my konbu onigiri like it was responsible for the rumors. People say fame is addictive, but for people like me—people who've made a personality out of solitude—it's more like an allergic reaction. The hives show up in the form of eye contact and unsolicited questions.
And then Riku had to make it worse.
I found him alone in the Theater Club room, adjusting the stage lights with a kind of detached flair only someone as dangerously cool as him could pull off. The room smelled like wood polish and cheap drama.
"Congrats," he said without looking at me. "Your stock value just spiked."
I considered walking away.
Instead, I mumbled, "It wasn't just me. Mitsuki helped."
He turned, hands in his pockets. The smirk was there—factory default. "Still. Guess even a background character can steal the spotlight sometimes."
That stung more than it should have. I wanted to clap back with something sharp. But nothing came. He didn't say it cruelly—just matter-of-fact. Like he'd been demoted from protagonist to supporting rival and didn't quite know how to process it.
Then he added, "Don't let it get to your head. One win doesn't make you the MC."
"Good," I said. "I don't want to be."
He laughed—low, short. "Liar."
Later, I ended up in the library annex, the unofficial base of the Puzzle Research Club. It had the quiet reverence of a shrine, except the gods worshipped here were riddles and logic loops. Mitsuki was already there, seated with her back straight, notebook closed neatly in front of her.
"Senpai," she greeted softly. Her hair was tucked behind one ear. She wasn't looking at me. That made it worse.
"You okay?" I asked, trying not to trip over the rising tension in the air.
"Yes," she said. "I was just thinking… about you."
Uh-oh.
She stood, not with nervous energy, but something heavier. She took one step forward. "When everyone was too busy pretending not to care, you listened. When they laughed at me, you shared the blame. I know I hide behind puzzles, but… you see me."
I blinked.
She smiled gently. "So, if I were a route… would you take it?"
My brain short-circuited. Confessions in this school weren't subtle. They were dramatic, rose-petaled, rooftop affairs. But this—this was worse. It was quiet. Thoughtful. Loaded.
Before I could even react, the door slammed open.
Koharu.
She burst in, bag still on her shoulder, like she'd sprinted here from the fourth dimension. Her eyes were wide. Her expression unreadable—except it wasn't unreadable. Not to me. It was pure, blinding panic disguised as confidence.
"Well, well," she said, voice loud and brittle. "What's this? A secret love confession in the Club of Cryptic Nerds?"
Mitsuki turned, startled. Koharu didn't give her time to recover.
"You know, if you're gonna start picking routes," she said, locking eyes with me, "maybe try remembering who walked beside you when no one else did."
I opened my mouth.
She cut me off. "Let me save you the choice. I'm not handing you over. Not to her, not to anyone."
Mitsuki's eyes softened. "It's not about ownership."
Koharu shot back, "You're right. It's about presence. And I've been here."
I didn't know what to say. Because… they were both right. And also horribly wrong. And somehow, I was the one who had to fix it.
Koharu took a step closer. "He's mine," she said, then paused—bit her lip. "I mean—he's my senpai. My idiot. Whatever."
Mitsuki smiled, small and sad. "Then I'll make my route unforgettable."
And just like that, the air broke. Everything—the tension, the unspoken rivalry, the slow burn of adolescent affection—came flooding out like we'd all opened our windows during a storm.
I stood there, blinking at two people who were so different, so determined, and both... right.
Because Mitsuki was calm, thoughtful, intelligent. She saw through chaos and found patterns.
And Koharu? Koharu was loud, stubborn, chaotic—and honest in ways that hurt. But she always ran back, didn't she?
I looked at them both. Then looked away. Because right now, any choice I made would break something.
Koharu turned before I could speak, muttering something about club duties. Mitsuki gave me one last glance and left too, quiet as always.
I was alone again. Like usual.
Except for the noise in my chest. The ache of choosing, of being chosen. Of realizing that I wasn't background anymore—not in their stories.
And honestly?
It terrified me.
Because when you're a background character, you can't disappoint anyone. No arcs. No stakes. No heartbreak.
But now?
Now I had routes. And all of them led straight through other people's feelings.
I sat down on the nearest bench and sighed.
"Guess I really did raise too many flags."
If this were a game, I'd be entering the worst ending. Or maybe… just the most honest one.
Either way, there was no going back.
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