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

"Damien!"

The voice didn't come from the field.

It came from the sideline—rising above the gasps and mutters of the crowd. Sharper. Familiar.

Isabelle.

Class rep.

She was already moving, her neat blazer abandoned, shoes pounding lightly across the turf as she cut through the chaos. Her black hair, always clipped back with that same silver pin, fluttered behind her, and her brown eyes—usually so calm, so collected—were hard now. Focused.

She knelt beside him in a heartbeat, her hand hovering at his shoulder, not touching but close.

"Are you okay?"

Damien exhaled, a slow breath pressed through gritted teeth. He shifted, testing his weight, then sat up fully. His leg screamed at the movement, but he didn't flinch.

His voice, when it came, was calm. Almost cold.

"I'm fine."

Isabelle narrowed her eyes at him. "You're bleeding."

"Still fine."

And he was.

Because pain like this? This wasn't new.

He'd trained through worse.

Waking up at four in the morning to run until his vision blurred. Dropping to his knees after another failed push-up with a body still too heavy for its own frame. Collapsing halfway through a circuit because his lungs couldn't keep up. Vomiting and then running again.

That had been pain.

The kind that carved through bone and will alike.

This?

This was just a scratch on a different battlefield.

He pushed himself up slowly, leaning on Isabelle's arm only for a breath before standing on his own.

The crowd was still murmuring.

And standing a few feet away, eyes wide with a flicker of something almost like regret—

Was the striker.

The one Damien had humiliated.

The reverse nutmeg.

The pass.

The embarrassment in front of the crowd.

Now this?

This was his revenge.

Damien shifted his weight fully onto his good leg, jaw set, hands brushing against the dried dirt and blood on his knee. He was steady now—still hurting, sure—but not broken. Not even close.

But Isabelle didn't move away.

She stayed right beside him.

And then, without a word, she stepped in—close.

She slipped her arm beneath his right, curling around his back, and lifted it gently over her shoulder. The motion was smooth, practiced—like she'd already made the decision long before asking.

"Lean on me," she said, not a request.

Damien hesitated.

Only for a second.

Then he let his arm settle over her, letting just enough of his weight lean into her shoulder to make the limp manageable. He didn't need to be carried. He just needed balance.

The two of them moved slowly across the pitch, the crowd parting instinctively. Whispers followed them, but no one spoke loud enough to be brave. Eyes darted to his leg, the blood, the boy beside Isabelle who wasn't supposed to be that strong.

But Isabelle didn't care.

She didn't look at them.

Her eyes were straight ahead, sharp and unwavering, like she was guiding him through a war zone.

"Could've just let me walk it off," Damien muttered under his breath, a wry edge to his voice.

"You did walk it off," Isabelle replied flatly. "Right into a second limp and another ten minutes of pretending you weren't about to collapse."

Damien glanced sideways at her as they walked—her expression was fixed in its usual seriousness, lips pressed into a fine line, brows furrowed just enough to show concern without tipping into panic.

And somehow… it looked cute.

No, more than that—it was endearing. The way she held herself like the whole world had to be kept in order through sheer will. The way she walked beside him, spine straight, lips drawn, like the idea of leaving him behind was more offensive than the blood on his leg.

He couldn't help it.

He smiled.

"You know," he murmured, voice low enough for only her to hear, "you're kind of cute when you're trying not to freak out."

Her steps didn't falter, but her face twitched. That sharp gaze flicked to him.

Then—pinch.

A hard one, right at his side, right where the fabric of his gym shirt stretched.

"—Tch! Hey!"

"Still not cute?" she said evenly, but there was a faint heat in her voice now—something between flustered and triumphant.

Damien winced, biting down a breath, but his grin only widened.

"That's abuse," he muttered.

"You're lucky it wasn't your ribs."

"Unfair. I'm injured."

"You were already injured," she said, exasperated. "You don't get to use that as an excuse after provoking me."

He chuckled under his breath, but then winced as another jolt shot up his leg. The pain hadn't gone anywhere.

Isabelle glanced at him again.

"…You really aren't fine, are you?"

He didn't answer right away.

Then, quieter this time, stripped of bravado:

"It hurts like hell."

She exhaled. A long, slow breath. But she didn't say I told you so.

Instead, she adjusted her grip on him ever so slightly—subtle, but firmer. Like she had no intention of letting him fall, no matter how much pride he still wanted to carry on his own.

Isabelle was quiet for a few more steps before she spoke again, her voice softer now. "When did you learn to play like that?"

Damien glanced down at her, eyes glinting through the pain. "Learn what?"

"That." Her brows drew slightly together. "The pass, the feints. The way you moved—it wasn't clumsy or random. That was coordination. Timing."

He shrugged lightly, wincing as the motion pulled at his ribs. "I learned it just now."

She gave him a flat look, unamused.

"I'm not lying."

"I don't believe you."

"Whatever," Damien muttered, his grin returning in pieces. "Maybe I just have a natural talent for humiliating people when the stakes are low."

Isabelle rolled her eyes, but her grip didn't loosen. Her pace didn't change.

Together, they crossed the side gate and moved into the shade of the hallway leading toward the medical wing. The murmur of the crowd faded behind them, replaced by the quiet hum of the academy's corridors. Cooler. Quieter.

And then the sign appeared up ahead—painted in muted white letters on the old mahogany frame:

INFIRMARY

The infirmary doors creaked open with a soft metallic groan, and the sterile, lemon-scented air met them instantly. The room was empty save for the woman at the counter, seated on a high stool, legs crossed, clipboard in hand.

Nurse Elise.

She looked up, perfectly calm, as always. Her uniform crisp, her jet-black hair swept into a tight bun, and her pale gray eyes scanning the two of them with clinical sharpness.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then her brow arched.

"Another fight?" she asked, voice dry, tone halfway between amusement and exasperation. "Already?"

Damien blinked, then gave her an incredulous look. "Dear Nurse," he said, injecting just enough sarcasm to make it sound formal. "You're making me look like a thug."

Elise didn't miss a beat. "Are you not one?"

"I'm not, of course," he replied, straightening slightly despite the weight he still leaned onto Isabelle's shoulder.

"Could've fooled me," she muttered, standing with that same smooth grace, clipboard tucked under her arm as she stepped toward them.

Isabelle shifted her weight, guiding Damien gently toward the nearest exam bed. "He was fouled," she said firmly. "From the side. It was late. Deliberate."

Elise's gaze snapped to Isabelle then, as if reevaluating the situation. "Fouled?"

"Brutally," Isabelle added, her voice clipped. "He hit the ground wrong. His knee twisted under him."

"Hmph." Elise crouched beside the bed as Damien sat down with a quiet hiss of pain. She began examining the leg immediately, her fingers efficient, expression neutral but focused.

As she worked, her eyes flicked back to Damien's face. "You know… you've changed."

Damien quirked a brow. "Oh?"

"You used to come in here trembling after getting elbowed in the hallway. Now you're limping in after a blood-slick tackle, cracking jokes on the way."

He grinned. "Growth."

Elise's fingers pressed into the side of his knee, hard.

"Argh—! Sadistic much?"

"Just checking reflexes," she said flatly, unfazed. "You're lucky. Doesn't feel dislocated. Might be a sprain. Possible ligament stress. I'll need to scan it."

She stood again and turned to grab a portable diagnostic wand from the drawer nearby.

Isabelle crossed her arms, her sharp eyes never leaving Damien. "You should've passed that ball earlier."

"I did pass it."

"Too late."

"I like dramatic timing," Damien muttered.

"Clearly."

Elise rolled her eyes as she activated the scanner. "If you two are done flirting, I'd like to make sure this boy doesn't walk out of here with a shattered ACL."

To that Isabelle stiffened…