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

Damien stepped into the gym slowly, leaning on the crutch as the door creaked open beside him. The hollow thump of rubber tip against polished floor echoed louder than it should have in the high-ceilinged space. Sunlight still filtered in from the upper windows, casting long slants of amber across the hardwood.

And the moment he entered—

Every head turned.

The after-match chatter died mid-sentence.

A dozen pairs of eyes swiveled to the source of the sound, and there he was. Shirt damp with effort, his right knee wrapped tightly beneath the brace, one hand gripping the crutch like it had always belonged there. He moved with that same stubborn rhythm—deliberate, steady, undeterred.

Even injured, he held his posture with an odd kind of defiance. Not limping out of weakness—but owning the limp.

"Oi—Elford!" someone muttered from the left, surprise riding the name.

The P.E. instructor—Coach Harrow—had been standing near the bench stacks, clipboard in hand, checking the last few names for gear return when the gym doors opened. He looked up immediately, brows furrowing.

"—What the—Elford?"

He stepped forward, quick and direct, but not with panic. He'd been about to go check on Damien earlier, but Galen had intercepted him in the hallway, voice cool and even as he explained that the student had been handled, and medical protocol was already underway.

Still, seeing the boy actually back—on his own feet—was a different matter.

"You're already up?" Harrow said, crossing the floor to meet him, his eyes scanning Damien's knee, the brace, the way he leaned but didn't sag. "You serious, kid? That tackle looked like it could've cracked bone."

Damien gave a lazy shrug, even as the sweat still cooled against his skin.

"Didn't," he said simply. "Turns out I'm a little harder to break than I look."

Coach Harrow exhaled—hard—the breath escaping his chest like a valve finally released. He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head.

"Christ. You're gonna give me a heart attack one of these days."

Then, softer: "But… glad to see you walking. Good to have you back on your feet."

Damien dipped his head in acknowledgment, but didn't say much more. The rest of the gym had gone still again. Conversations half-resumed, glances traded—but all of it orbiting him now.

He didn't have to look to know where the others were.

Aaron, Lionel. Rin nearby, still stretching with one foot pressed against the wall. Isabelle—quiet, arms folded, unreadable.

And—

Madeline.

"Welcome back, knee warrior," she called out from across the gym, grinning like she'd been waiting for that exact line. "Missed you by this much."

Damien gave a quiet huff of amusement and shook his head.

Coach Harrow waved him toward the benches.

Coach Harrow motioned toward the benches with a half-sigh, half-laugh. "Alright, sit down before you collapse dramatically and ruin the floor for the rest of us."

Damien offered a nod, adjusted his grip on the crutch, and limped across the gym with unhurried ease. Every step was measured, but not stiff—like he was letting the rhythm of the space carry him, even as the pain tugged quietly beneath the surface.

He settled on the bench near the edge of the court, setting the crutch against the wall beside him. The brace on his knee caught the light as he stretched the leg out in front of him, testing the weight. Still tight. Still sore. But stable.

Better than expected.

He leaned back, the tension in his shoulders softening slightly now that he wasn't being pulled in every direction.

The class had returned to post-match drills—cool-down laps, equipment checks, group review—but Damien sat at a distance, content in the stillness. He glanced to the side and caught sight of Lionel approaching, sweat-slicked and still panting lightly.

"Yo," Lionel said, dropping down onto the bench beside him with a heavy thump. "Good to see you didn't keel over out there."

Damien smirked. "Disappointed?"

"Only that I didn't get to kick another one to you," Lionel grinned. "You had good timing out there. Could've racked up one more."

Damien leaned his head back against the wall behind them, eyes on the rafters. "How'd the match end?"

Lionel let out a low breath. "Didn't. Not officially. Ref blew the whistle right after you got hit. Said the mood was too volatile to continue."

"Hmm." Damien nodded once. "Fair call."

"Yeah," Lionel agreed. "No one had the heart to play after that tackle. Kinda killed the whole mood. Rin looked like he was ready to punch a guy."

Damien's gaze remained level, unfazed. "He should've."

That earned a chuckle. "Not gonna lie, wouldn't have stopped him."

A moment passed in silence between them, both watching the gym's slow return to routine. More students began filtering in from the locker rooms now—those who'd gone to wash up, or swap gear, or retrieve phones. Among them were several girls from the volleyball squad, their laughter echoing in lazy waves as they entered.

The bench shifted beneath him as someone else stepped into his peripheral vision.

Damien glanced up—

And blinked once.

Green hair. Braided low, as always. Crimson eyes narrowed, but not unkind. A look that carried more weight than most, even when she was saying nothing at all.

Iris.

Of all people.

"You look okay," she said, her tone flat, neutral—but not distant.

Damien's gaze held hers evenly. "I am okay."

She nodded once, as if that was all she needed, then sat down beside him—legs crossed, posture relaxed in that strangely precise way only Iris could manage. Not rigid. Not casual. Just… in control.

But Damien felt something flicker.

A twitch under the surface. A faint tightness in his jaw he didn't mean to clench.

He swallowed once, slow.

'Oh, for fuck's sake…'

It was the trait again.

The parasite of his old self—buried somewhere deep in his blood, still clinging to habits it didn't have permission to keep.

This wasn't like Isabelle. Was more like Celia. There was no spark of rivalry, no clash of philosophies, no combat of wills. Just presence.

And still, his body reacted.

His chest tightened the way it used to when old Damien saw Iris walk into a room and said nothing. That dumb pull toward someone who'd never even looked at him twice back then.

'Tch. Guess the fat fuck liked her too, huh.'

It made sense.

Iris had been a companion in the game, one of the few mainline characters who stood beside the protagonist long before the others respected him. She was calm. Deadly. Clear-eyed. The kind of girl who only spoke when it mattered—and when she did, it always did.

Of course the old Damien imprinted on that.

"You played well," she said finally, eyes forward. "Surprisingly well."

He tilted his head slightly, smirking. "I did. Any problem with that?"

His words came out sharper than intended.

Not laced with aggression, exactly—but edged. Reflexive. Defensive in a way that didn't belong to him anymore.

And he felt it the moment it left his mouth.

Damien exhaled silently, eyes narrowing at the sensation curling beneath his skin again. The old trait, rearing its head like a muscle memory he hadn't asked for. It didn't overwhelm him—it never did—but it clung to the edges of his nerves like a persistent static.

Not enough to dominate his actions.

Just enough to inconvenience him.

To stain the intent behind his tone.

"Tch."

He didn't bother apologizing. What would be the point? The words were out. And Iris, as always, didn't react the way most would.

She tilted her head faintly, her expression unreadable.

Then—quietly—she laughed.

It was soft. Brief. The kind of laugh that came from someone who didn't do it often, but meant it when they did.

"You've made quite a few enemies since then," she said, voice almost amused. "Are you sure you want to keep going like this?"

Damien glanced sideways at her. Her red eyes met his, cool and steady. No judgment. No flirtation. Just clear calculation. A question, not a warning.

She wasn't worried for him.

She just wanted to see what he'd say.

He could respect that.

Unlike Celia—who always looked at him like a stain on her image—Iris didn't look down on him at all. Her presence was weightless and poised, and more importantly, unbothered. Because the Blackwood family didn't need to measure itself against Elford influence. They were equals. Rivals, even.

And Iris?

She knew exactly what that meant.

Damien's smirk returned—this time calmer, more deliberate.

"You think I should stop?" he asked, voice low.

"I think," Iris said, resting her elbows on her knees as she leaned forward slightly, "you're either being very clever… or very stupid. And I haven't decided which yet."

Damien chuckled under his breath.

"I will be waiting for the time you decide."

"….Heh…"

Just like that she felt, with a different grace, something that was really hard to find on someone else.