Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate

The lunch bell rang like a gentle chime across the marble halls of Vermillion Academy, but the moment it echoed, the atmosphere shifted with smooth, choreographed chaos.

In the grand cafeteria—if it could even be called that—sunlight poured in from crystal-paneled windows that stretched nearly two stories high. Glass chandeliers glittered above polished white floors, and rows of gleaming wooden tables ran long and regal beneath the glass-pane ceiling, each table adorned with gold-trimmed trays and soft velvet seating.

This was not a school lunchroom.

It was a hall fit for nobility.

And here, the nobles gathered.

Victoria Langley sat at her usual table near the center of the hall, where the sun always caught the golden tones of her hair and cast a soft halo across her shoulders. With her sat Cassandra Merlot, Lillian Duvall, and Celia Everwyn—the school's own sovereign quartet, each one wrapped in elegance, their uniforms pristine, their presence impossible to ignore.

On the table in front of them sat porcelain dishes, each one bearing selections far beyond what most students could ever imagine as "school food." Grilled lobster tail glazed with truffle butter. Creamy saffron risotto. Fresh, chilled berry tarts topped with edible gold leaf. Crystal flutes of rose-infused sparkling cider shimmered beside folded silk napkins.

The conversation drifted easily as they dined.

"Did you hear about the new couture drop from Lira's Fall Line?" Lillian asked, dabbing delicately at her mouth with her napkin. "Apparently only four pieces are coming into the country."

"Of course I did," Cassandra said smoothly, tilting her flute with a practiced flick of her wrist. "I preordered mine last week."

Victoria remained silent for a moment, slicing elegantly into her seared scallops. She hadn't said much since sitting down. Her gaze occasionally drifted—never lingering, but always aware.

Around the cafeteria, other clusters of students had gathered. Groups from 4-A and 4-C were sprawled across nearby tables—laughing, tossing bites of food into each other's mouths, joking with the easy confidence that came with wealth and status.

Damien, notably, wasn't here.

At least… not yet.

Not that she was watching for him.

"You're quiet today," Celia finally remarked, her voice light but edged, sipping from her crystal glass. "Something on your mind, Victoria?"

Victoria gave a faint, measured sigh and set down her silver fork, her posture flawless even as she leaned slightly back in her chair.

"I was tutoring Felicia last night," she said with a soft shrug, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Logic, reasoning, and her usual innocent nonsense. It was… draining."

Lillian offered a sympathetic smile. "She's adorable though."

"She acts adorable," Victoria corrected smoothly. "But that girl plays dumber than she is. Trust me."

Cassandra chuckled behind her glass. "Spoken like a true elder sister."

Celia gave a faint smirk but said nothing more—her attention shifting as a shadow fell across the table.

Leon had stepped closer, his tray in one hand, his other resting casually on the back of Celia's chair. His black jacket was left unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the glint of a branded watch hugging his wrist.

"Celia," he said, his voice rich with ease. "You missed the morning reps meeting. Again."

Celia didn't look at him right away. She took a slow sip of her cider, then raised her eyes.

"Mm," she said. "That sounds like something I'd do."

Leon chuckled, clearly unbothered by the jab. "I had to lie for you. Again."

"I didn't ask you to," she replied, her tone polite but cold.

The boys at the neighboring table leaned in slightly at the exchange—part intrigued, part entertained.

Beside him, another figure pushed his chair slightly closer.

Ezren Vachette.

He didn't speak immediately. He didn't need to. Just his presence drew attention. Silver-blond hair, eyes like clear frost, and a bearing so precise it could only come from them—the Vachette family. A seat-holder clan. One of the ten.

He was technically nobility, but different. Sharper. Politically dangerous.

Ezren finally glanced toward the girls' table, his gaze sweeping slowly over each face—before landing, briefly, on Victoria.

"A shame," he said mildly, "to hear Lady Langley had to exhaust herself tutoring. I would've thought Miss Felicia had the sense not to inconvenience her sister."

His voice was calm, low—yet carried a quiet weight that made conversation soften around him.

Victoria met his gaze without flinching. "It's part of my duty," she said smoothly, lifting her glass. "I don't expect someone like you to understand familial obligation."

Ezren tilted his head slightly, not offended—almost amused. "I'm impressed. You didn't stumble once. Was that a jab or a flirtation?"

Cassandra laughed softly. "Ezren, you really don't know how to speak without a threat in your tone, do you?"

"I find it saves time," he replied.

Leon's attention had already shifted—he was pointing out something on Celia's plate now, commenting about portion control and how the upcoming athletic showcase would be "brutal for the unprepared." But Ezren? Ezren was still watching Victoria.

And for just a moment, Victoria felt it.

That strange sensation she hated.

Being observed.

Not by simps.

But by equals. Predators.

And yet—even as her hand curled loosely around her fork, her expression didn't change.

Cassandra had just reached for her tart when Ezren Vachette leaned back slightly in his chair, his silver-blond hair catching the fractured light from the chandeliers above. His fingers lazily traced the rim of his glass, eyes still trained somewhere beyond Victoria, though clearly still aware of the tension building across the table. Then, with the same offhanded air of someone commenting on the weather, he spoke.

"Apparently, Damien Elford has become quite popular recently."

He said it simply—quietly—but in a room like this, simplicity could be more dangerous than any loud provocation.

The words slipped into the golden-laced air like a drop of ink into water. The table stilled for a breath.

Celia didn't turn her head immediately. She finished dabbing her lips with her napkin, set it gently beside her plate, and then—slowly—raised her gaze to Ezren. Her expression was as poised and cold as marble.

A warning.

But he didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.

Ezren Vachette met her eyes with all the lazy grace of someone who knew precisely where he stood in the hierarchy of power—and knew that she couldn't touch him.

"I never would've expected it," he went on, tilting his head. "The Damien I remember couldn't even finish a full lap in the training fields without nearly fainting. Now? I hear students in other divisions whispering about him like he's someone to watch."

Celia's eyes narrowed, her smile never quite reaching her lips. "You have a fascinating interest in lowborn gossip today, Vachette."

There was no mistaking the sharp edge in her voice now, but Ezren only smiled faintly, unbothered. "Come now. You of all people should know the value of watching fallen dogs stand back up. Sometimes they bite."

Lillian scoffed sharply, nearly slamming her fork down. "It's better if we don't talk about that bastard," she snapped. "He's trash. Nothing more. He got lucky once, made a scene, and now half the school's talking like he's become a damn noble."

Ezren's eyes slid lazily over to her, his tone still calm, still unsettlingly polite. "Why not talk about him?" he asked. "He caused a scene, yes—but you're all acting like it hasn't worked in his favor."

"It hasn't," Victoria cut in, her voice cool, though not nearly as sharp as Celia's. "And if people are talking about him, it's only because gossip is the weakest form of entertainment."

Ezren's fingers tapped idly on the table. "Is that so?" His silver gaze returned to Celia. "Because it seems to me like he's the only one who got what he wanted."

Celia's smile returned—small, elegant, and made of ice.

"No, Ezren," she said softly, her voice a barely restrained blade. "He hasn't gotten anything. Not yet."

Ezren leaned back, content, folding his arms loosely across his chest. "Ah. So you haven't forgotten."

"No," Victoria echoed, her voice taut now, her words clipped. "We haven't. Don't be rude, Ezren."