The day had slipped quietly into late afternoon by the time the academy finally released us.
Classes were done—mercifully dull, the kind of bland schedule they throw together after a long holiday. A forced, lifeless routine meant to ease us back into the grind.
I'd sat through hours of lectures, watching students scribble notes with fervent concentration, while my own mind drifted, tracing the patterns on the ceiling.Nothing worth remembering.
I made my way back to the dorms. The academy, with its ancient, hallowed halls, provided separate wings for different groups—commoners, nobles, and the so-called elites.
A neat little hierarchy, dressed up in stone and wood, carefully designed to keep the right people in the right places.
My dorm was tucked away in the left wing, not too far from the main grounds, a private sanctuary for those of high standing. The walk itself wasn't long, but there was a weight to the silence, the kind that settles after a day that gave you nothing.
About that little act I pulled today—the one with Lucas and the sword—funny enough, it was the only thing that felt remotely interesting. It was a performance, a brief, chaotic play in the otherwise stagnant theater of my life. The fear in Lucas's eyes, the bewilderment in my friends' faces, the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it all… it was a potent cocktail.
But it left me with something… awkward. My so-called friends didn't quite know how to take it. Aron, Wilson, and Tyler had followed me out, their usual sycophantic chatter replaced by a nervous, shuffling silence. Ryan, my decent friend, was the only one brave enough to ask, "What was that about?" before I gave him a look that told him to drop it.
They're not supposed to understand. They're not built for that kind of chaos, that kind of performance. What I did wasn't for them. It was necessary.
I've read the stories, after all. Not just the ones they make us study here, but the real ones, the ones that are woven into the very fabric of the world. Everywhere you look—every story you read, every world that spins—everything bends toward the protagonist. Fate bends toward them.
And this is the early stage, isn't it? The fragile beginning. The quiet before the storm. If I don't move now, if I don't shape things here, if I let the script unfold as it's written, I'll get swallowed whole. I'll be an obstacle, a stepping stone, a brief moment of conflict before the hero inevitably rises.
And maybe there's another reason. A silly one, really. One that's harder to admit.
I've been a good boy my entire life. Not for a year, or five, but my entire life. From grade school to college, even in the office. Always smiling, always polite, always wearing that careful mask of decency. The good son. The model worker. The kind face no one remembers.
The boy who was supposed to be the pillar of the family, the one who carried the weight of a name with quiet dignity.
I still remember my father's funeral. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and sorrow. My mother was weeping, broken, her body trembling with grief. My little brother clung to her sleeve, trying to comfort her with a trembling hand and a voice full of sobs. He was a child, and he grieved like one.
And me… I stood at the entrance, a polite, stoic figure in a black suit. I greeted people. I smiled at them. I thanked them. I played the part of the "strong son," the one who held it all together. Someone had to play the part. So I did.
I smiled while my world collapsed, while the ground beneath my feet felt like it was dissolving into nothingness.
I didn't cry. Not once. Not in front of them. I couldn't. I had to be the rock, the anchor, the one who kept the family from drifting apart in a sea of grief. Someone had to keep smiling, even when I wanted to break, to scream, to fall to my knees and weep for all that we had lost. It's strange, isn't it? That I remember the performance more vividly than the man we buried.
I remember the feel of the suit, the practiced curve of my lips, the way my eyes felt dry and empty even as they met the tearful gaze of others. I remember being a stranger to my own grief.
So now, I've decided to change my role. If my whole life I've been cast as the "good boy," then why not—just this once—play the villain? Even if it's only for a little while. The good guy gets to be forgotten. The good guy gets to be a footnote. But a villain? A villain gets to be remembered right.
A villain gets to be the source of the hero's motivation, the catalyst for the entire story. A villain gets to be the one who changes everything. When my part is done, when the story has been set on its new course, I'll leave the script to others and watch from the audience. A bad role suits me better now. A bad role knows how to breathe.
My thoughts faded as my steps slowed.
The dorm rose ahead, tall and polished in the dimming glow of afternoon. Through the gates, a manicured path stretched forward, greenery winding neatly along the walls, flowers blooming around a pristine fountain at the center. A portrait of noble serenity—beautiful, suffocating, fake. The kind of place that looks perfect on the outside but hides a hundred different kinds of emptiness within.
I slipped past students filing in, their chatter breaking like static against my ears. Noise without meaning. The usual meaningless gossip, the small, petty dramas of children playing at being adults.
The stairs groaned beneath me as I climbed to the second floor, the sound a low, resonant complaint against the weight of a thousand days of climbing.
Room 21A.
The door waited, still and expectant, like it already knew I was coming. Like it had been waiting for me to step through its threshold and shed the last of the day's burdens. I slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open. The first thing that greeted me was a maid standing patiently, waiting just for me.
"Welcome back, young master," Roselyn said, her ever-sweet smile blooming like it had been rehearsed for my return. She was a constant, a warm, reassuring presence that felt like the last vestige of a home I no longer had.
"Well, I'm back," I replied, slipping off my coat with sluggish hands. The fabric was stiff, clinging to me.
"Allow me." She stepped closer, her movements practiced, graceful, as she eased the fabric from my shoulders. The coat slid off, and I felt a faint sense of relief.
"So… how was your day, young master?" she asked lightly, her tone a delicate inquiry, as if the weight of the question could change something.
"Nothing interesting. Just the usual. Boring, to be exact." I kept my voice flat, giving her the answer she expected, the answer that was, in its own way, true.
"Fufu," she chuckled softly, a sound like wind chimes. "Probably because you didn't get to see Lady Emilia, right?"
I raised a brow. "That's not the case." It was a direct lie, but I was so practiced at it, the words felt natural on my tongue.
"Oh? So you met her then?"
"Nah. She didn't come today. Most likely she hadn't taken the fast gate for quick travel—she's probably stuck with a long carriage ride instead."
"Well, young master, reservations for the fast gate take time. It's always crowded, and many can't get through, even nobles."
"But Roselyn, she could. If she used our household name, the name of the Ravenshade family, she could get through easily. And yet, she didn't." I watched her, waiting for her to offer some polite, flimsy excuse.
"Mm… knowing Lady Emilia, she probably refused on purpose. She has her own pride—her own name to stand on." Her words were an olive branch, an attempt to smooth over the rough edges of my bitterness.
"…So what you're saying is, I'm a stranger to her? That my family name doesn't matter, that even as her fiancé I'm someone she can't rely on?" My voice was colder now, a probe. I was pushing at the edges of her comforting lie.
"Th-that's not what I mean, young master! If my words—"
"I know you didn't mean it that way. But still… I can't help thinking it. Even after all the days we've spent together, I still feel like a stranger to her. No matter how much I try to close the distance, it always stays the same." It was a confession, but it wasn't meant for her. It was a thought that I had kept locked away, now free to roam in the quiet of my room.
"Things will change, young master. I know they will. All it takes is a little more time." Her voice was soft, laced with a genuine belief that I found almost endearing.
"You talk like you're sure of that."
"Well, of course I am. Who wouldn't come to love our dear young master?" Her smile was so pure, so full of simple faith, that for a moment, I almost believed her.
"So… that applies to you as well, I suppose?" The words were out before I could stop them. A small, cruel test.
That caught her off guard. A faint blush crept across her face, a shy, fleeting confession of her own. "Mou, young master… you always tease me whenever you get the chance. Maybe that's why Lady Emilia keeps her distance—because you're such a tease." She deflected, but the blush remained.
"Haha, maybe so. Anyway, I'll be in my room to rest. Let me know when dinner's ready." I knew when dinner would be ready. I just needed to end the conversation before it went somewhere I wasn't ready to go.
"Of course, young master. Have a good rest."
After that, I drifted toward my room. It was simple yet elegant, nothing extravagant—just enough to be called mine. The desk was cluttered with textbooks, the usual lifeless order of a noble's study. A perfect portrait of the person I was supposed to be.
And there, sitting quietly on the corner, was a picture frame. I reached out, lifting it carefully. A small family photo—one of the few things I could never bring myself to put away.
The image stared back at me: a younger version of myself, my father in his prime—stern, handsome—and my mother, smiling with a warmth so gentle it seemed almost unreal. She held me in her lap like I was her whole world.
A bitter laugh escaped my throat. "…Can't help but be envious," I murmured, "seeing a family look that happy. That normal."
My eyes lingered on her smile before I whispered, barely above a breath, "Hey, Evan… did you feel the same? The same loss I do now… when you lost your mother?"
My grip on the frame tightened, my knuckles turning white. "Did your world feel empty too, when your mother died? When that warmth you thought would last forever turned cold in your hands?" I couldn't help but ask. I was asking myself. I was asking the man whose body I now inhabited.
The man who had a story, a life, a past that was nothing but a series of broken memories.
"What did you do, when the last thing you cared for was ripped away? And how do you keep standing, knowing that more will be taken, again and again?" The questions hung in the air, heavy and unanswered.
A bitter laugh escaped my throat, too dry and hollow. "We're villains, Evan. Side characters meant to suffer. No matter how strong we become, the heroes will always surpass us. That's how the story was written. And us? We're nothing but obstacles waiting to be erased."
My gaze darkened as I saw my own reflection in the glass of the frame. My eyes, once so empty and unfamiliar, were now burning with a new kind of light, a new kind of purpose. "Tell me, what would you do if you knew your fiancée—the one you'd bled for, lived for—was never yours to begin with? That she was always fated for the hero, and you were only ever a placeholder?"
I set the photo back on the desk, careful not to let it fall. "All the love… all the effort… all the desperate attempts to hold on—it doesn't matter. We'll lose everything anyway. Our positions, our places, our loves, our spaces. That's what it means to be a villain. To hold something briefly, only to lose it forever."
My voice fell to a whisper, almost breaking. "And in the end… all left is just pain. Pain that belongs to us alone."
Sometimes I wonder… was it you, Evan, or Lucas who wore the mask of the tragic hero? The thought doesn't come with an answer. Just silence. Heavy, stubborn silence.
"But now it's me," I murmured to no one, my voice too soft to carry beyond the empty room. "Me, in your body, walking your path. So tell me—what decision should I make? Do I leave everything to unravel the way fate intended… or do I try to pull the strings myself, and risk making a greater mess than before?"
I chuckled without humor. "Quite the question, isn't it, Evan?"
I reached into my pocket, fingers brushing against the familiar shape hidden there. A cigarette. I slid it out and pressed it against my lips. Didn't light it. Couldn't. I hadn't smoked since… since before.
I was still a good boy, after all. Maybe I wasn't craving the taste at all. Maybe I just needed something to hold on...
Through the window, the evening sun spilled its last warmth, stretching long shadows across the walls. The sky was dimming, soft streaks of orange bleeding into purple, as if the world itself couldn't decide whether to surrender to night or cling to what little light remained.
I let out a slow breath, watching the horizon blur. My chest felt heavy, as though every word I hadn't said, every choice I hadn't made, was pressing down on me at once. The air in the room was stale, but the air outside felt even colder.
Tomorrow. That's when it begins. When the curtain rises, and the story starts to move in earnest. The hero will rise, the heroine will be at his side, and the villain will be there to make it all happen.
I don't know if I'll be following the script… or tearing it apart.
But one thing is certain.
Tomorrow, my role begins.