"Women's hearts can be complex, or simple, or something in between—whatever shape they take depends entirely on what they chase and what they're willing to burn for," I murmured, letting the words hang in the air like smoke. The thought tasted sharp on my tongue, a kind of philosophical aftertaste I didn't mind savoring.
My mind drifted back to her—Maria Frost. Neat braid. Tincture-stained fingertips. That quiet, almost dignified calm that couldn't quite hide the raw hunger beneath.
She always carried herself as if she were holding the world together with trembling hands, pretending not to notice the cracks in her own skin.
I pictured her face again—the way her eyes lingered, the tension hiding behind her voice—and I studied it the way a chemist studies a volatile reaction: equal parts curiosity and control.
"Why did I act like that?" I asked myself quietly. "Was it some leftover emotion from the original Evan?"
The thought passed—and so did the doubt.
No. The answer was clear.
It wasn't him. It was me.
I acted like that because I wanted to.
Because I liked it.
There's a certain satisfaction in watching someone's poise tremble—in seeing their mask slip just enough to reveal the pulse beneath. It's not rage, not pity… it's something quieter, sharper.
The moment when you realize that someone else's composure was never real, just a fragile illusion they desperately tried to maintain.
That thrill—that private, ugly pleasure—wasn't something I inherited from the old Evan.
It was mine now. My own small, dark indulgence. Maybe that makes me cruel. Maybe it just makes me honest.
When I first saw her, she'd changed.
Different clothes. Straighter posture. The Frost family's emblem etched faintly on her cuff—an emblem heavy enough to crush anyone without the right spine to bear it.
She looked cleaner, colder, more refined. The kind of person who wanted the world to know she'd survived something and come out stronger.
But when our eyes met, I saw it. A flicker. Recognition. Fear. Anger. Something volatile trying hard to stay buried.
If the original Evan had been there, he probably wouldn't have noticed. Or maybe he would've smirked, found it amusing, and moved on. But me? It felt different. Like the world was whispering that our paths weren't done intersecting yet.
Twice she bumped into me.
Twice.
That's not coincidence—that's something trying to get my attention.
I wondered—if I hadn't met her again, would she have remained that quiet little alchemist, locked in her world of herbs and fumes and tinkering brilliance? Or would she have hidden her real face behind politeness until the day she could strike?
Because people like her don't simply forgive. They store their pain like a toxin, refining it drop by drop until it becomes something lethal.
And the world keeps underestimating people like that.
"What can a little alchemist do against a noble young master?" That's what they all think.
Until the "little alchemist" learns exactly what mixture of ingredients can melt your world down to dust.
I'm not making that mistake.
If I ignore her now, she'll just grow sharper, more patient. The kind of woman who waits behind kindness, smiling while she measures the weight of your downfall.
A stab from a woman hurts the same as one from a man—but the shame cuts deeper. There's nothing more humiliating than being destroyed by the person you thought harmless.
So, no—I didn't act cruel because of him. I did it because it pleased me. Because I saw the wires and wanted to tug them, to see how far they'd stretch before snapping. Because I refuse to be caught off guard again.
The truth is, I don't even know how this story unfolds.
I've read fragments—ten truths, maybe—but the rest is blank, blurred, forgotten. Beats without rhythm. Names without weight.
If I know ten things about this world, there are a hundred I don't.
Every step I take spawns a new variable. Every choice is another ripple I can't predict.
And honestly? I'm just… messing around.
I don't have a plan.
The goddess who threw me here told me to "live as I please," and I've taken that advice seriously. No destiny. No grand ambition. No prophecy carved in stars. I move because I can. I act because I want to.
Sometimes it feels like I'm living in a slice-of-life story—quiet, harmless, simple. Other times, it feels like I'm sliding into something darker, something written in blood instead of ink. The script keeps rewriting itself while I'm still acting my part.
So what do you expect from me? Redemption? Purpose?
Please.
I'm not that kind of protagonist.
I'm the one who pokes the story just to see how it breaks.
Lucas—the so-called "hero"? I pick on him because it's fun.
The kidnapping of the elf princess? I joined because it sounded interesting.
None of it means anything beyond curiosity and the thrill of watching what happens next.
Call it selfish. Call it madness. I call it freedom.
Maybe the only kind of honesty left in this absurd world.
Because my path only has two outcomes.
The first—nothing happens.
Every ripple I make will fade, every variable I create will dissolve into insignificance. The world will move on, forgetting me entirely, like I never existed. Just another side character erased by time.
The second—my presence will twist everything.
The script will bleed. The world will stagger.
Every careless act, every impulse will come back, snarling at my throat.
And everything will burn.
Either way, the result's the same: me, wandering forward without knowing where I'm going, laughing quietly at a horizon that never holds still.
"So… what now?" I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. "What am I even supposed to do next?"
Ah. Right.
Father summoned me.
It must be about the engagement.
"Divorce," I said to myself with a faint grin. "Though that's not quite the right word yet. Breaking an engagement sounds more accurate."
Yes, that's it.
After all this time, it's finally happening—I'll officially sever ties with Emilia Nightshade, the supposed heroine of this world.
And with that, my role as the third-rate villain ends—quietly, without any grand exit.
"Fiancé of the heroine," I scoffed, my footsteps echoing through the marble corridor. "Just a prop for her to be taken away by the protagonist in the end. What a pathetic role."
I let out a dry chuckle. "So why not skip to the ending early? Why waste energy on someone who was never mine to begin with?"
Better to end it cleanly—no theatrics, no delusions.
But after that… what then?
If I think about it logically, my involvement ends there.
No Emilia. No rivalry with Lucas. No reason for the world to keep me in its pages.
Just another noble fading quietly out of the main story.
A boring life waiting at the margins.
…Though maybe boredom isn't the worst fate.
Still, I wonder—will it really end there? Or will the world, by some cruel twist, drag me back into its storm?
Because for the first time in my life—this second life—I feel something.
Back on Earth, everything was grey.
Days bled into one another, empty, flavorless. I couldn't tell joy from exhaustion, sorrow from apathy. But here—here, the world is drenched in color.
Rage, envy, satisfaction, curiosity—they're all sharp, alive. Painful sometimes, but real.
And maybe that's reason enough to keep going.
To live. To play. To feel.
To keep testing the limits until I grow tired of it.
"Well," I muttered, stepping out of the alchemy building, "let's think about that later. For now, I should tell Roselyn to pack my things and prepare the carriage."
The hallway was empty, eerily so.
Most of the students had already locked themselves inside their chambers—tinkering, studying, or blowing something up for the sake of discovery. The air smelled faintly of smoke and metallic dust, but the silence felt heavier than usual.
As I crossed the main gate, my path curved near the Philosophy Wing.
Dark. Still. Too quiet.
I frowned. "That's strange… It's never this dark here."
The shadows seemed thicker, the air denser.
A flicker of unease crawled up my spine—but I smiled anyway.
"Well," I whispered, half to myself, half to the dark, "it does look like the perfect place for a kidnapping."
"You're not wrong about that," a voice answered behind me.
Every muscle in my body froze.
The tone was calm, almost amused—but heavy enough to silence my thoughts.
A chill ran down my spine.
Before I could even turn—
Bam.
A blinding pain exploded across my head.
The world spun violently, collapsing into blurred light and color. The ground tilted beneath me.
My thoughts shattered into noise.
The last thing I saw was a silhouette—a tall, hazy figure standing against the dim corridor light—before the world bled into black.
And then… nothing.