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

Chapter 264: Yo, rep?

The commute, at first, had gone smooth.

Damien handled the Selvenhardt like a pilot easing through low turbulence—eyes forward, hands steady, reflexes clean. The early part of the route was quiet, the estate roads clear, the AI’s soft assistance barely whispering in the background. No sudden corrections. No override alerts.

Then they hit the city grid.

And it began.

The school hour rush.

Damien’s fingers tightened slightly on the wheel as a procession of autonomous vehicles crawled like metallic ants along the main corridor—precise, slow, utterly lifeless. Selvenhardt’s AI began suggesting optimal merge points and ideal waiting windows in soft tones. He ignored all of them.

Because patience?

Not his thing.

He started shifting lanes.

Once. Twice. Then again.

The AI adjusted without protest, but the sensors lit soft warnings every few seconds. “Caution: Following distance reduced.” “Caution: Lane clearance marginal.” “Caution: Manual override suggested.”

Damien didn’t care.

He wasn’t reckless, not entirely. But the gridlock pressed on his nerves like cold fingers. Watching cars coast forward like sheep herded by code made something in his chest itch.

He slipped into another lane, edged between a freight crawler and a city transport cruiser. The latter beeped softly—reflexive alert, not threat—but Elysia made a sound under her breath. The kind she only made when she wanted to comment, but chose not to.

“Say it,” Damien muttered.

Elysia blinked once. “Nothing, young master.”

He smirked.

Then braked—sharper than necessary—to avoid a security patrol shuttle that didn’t signal before edging half into his lane.

The Supervising Mode flared a small pulse across the HUD. Auto-stability kicked in for a second to balance the lane center. It wasn’t jarring. But it was enough.

Damien exhaled slowly, fingers flexing once on the wheel.

It wasn’t the driving.

It was the traffic.

That was the real battlefield. Not the road itself, but the other drivers. And the worst part? Most of them weren’t even people. Autonomous systems. Predictable. Calculable. Mindless.

And still—they were a problem.

Because traffic, even under control, meant pressure.

No rhythm. No thrill. Just crawl, brake, merge, crawl again. No room to cut through, no space to “swim” through lanes like some back-alley courier weaving the underground loops.

He finally eased into the outer school lane, the gates of Private Vermillion rising into view beyond a line of commuter drops.

Damien’s brow twitched.

His voice was quiet, dry.

“It’s a pain in the ass to drive in traffic.”

Elysia stepped out after him, her heels clicking softly against the pavement as the Selvenhardt’s door closed with a dignified hiss. She adjusted the cuff of her glove with a habitual flick of her fingers, eyes briefly scanning the morning crowd of students, staff, and incoming autos before turning toward him.

“You looked like you wanted to drive,” she said, voice even.

Damien tilted his head, slinging his bag higher on his shoulder. “I did want to drive.”

He glanced back at the line of crawling vehicles—chrome shells moving without urgency, without thought.

“This?” he added, with a flick of his fingers toward the street. “This is not driving.”

Elysia’s eyes traced the same scene, then returned to him. “I agree.”

But her lips—

He caught it instantly.

The barest twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Not amusement, not mockery. Something quieter. The kind of smile she didn’t allow herself to fully show. Professional boundaries. Discipline. She’d trained too long to let her mask slip easily.

But Damien had known her long enough.

He saw it.

“You’re holding it in,” he said, eyebrow rising.

Elysia blinked. “Holding what in?”

“That smug little smirk,” he said, stepping a little closer, voice dropping just enough to catch the current of the morning wind. “Like you predicted this exact moment.”

Her silence didn’t deny it.

And that was the answer.

Damien sighed once through his nose, then smirked. “Next time,” he muttered, “I’ll let the AI drive.”

His voice wasn’t bitter—just matter-of-fact. A dry concession to practicality, stripped of pride. “This doesn’t teach me much either. Just patience. And I already hate that lesson.”

Elysia said nothing.

She simply nodded once, quiet, her eyes flicking briefly toward the nearest autonomous vehicle gliding past like an obedient pet.

And then—wordlessly—she turned her face away, looking out the tinted window of the Selvenhardt.

She didn’t laugh.

Didn’t speak.

But Damien saw it anyway.

The softest lift at the corner of her cheek. The faintest movement in her shoulders. The kind of amusement she let the world believe didn’t exist.

He didn’t call her out this time.

Didn’t need to.

He just leaned back in the seat for a second longer, eyes half-lidded as the school gates finally loomed close enough for the system to ping destination proximity.

The ride would end in less than a minute.

******

The metro car hissed softly as it slowed to a halt, the familiar voice over the intercom calling out, “Station: Lynden Street. Doors opening on the left.” A light chime echoed through the compartment as the passengers began to shuffle, feet against tile, bags brushing shoulders, the usual slow procession of early morning commuters stepping into motion.

Isabelle was already up, already moving. She didn’t wait for the surge. She knew the flow, the timing, the exact spot to stand so she could exit without brushing elbows. It was a small thing—but one of those quiet efficiencies you learned when you didn’t have a driver waiting for you outside in a black sedan.

Her boots hit the pavement with crisp rhythm. Her bag hung neatly on one shoulder, the strap pulled tight, her blazer collar freshly pressed. Even in the subtle morning chill, she looked composed. The kind of composed that wasn’t for show. It was just how she lived.

Because she had to.

Vermillion Academy’s student lot brimmed daily with sleek transports—personal autos, security-escorted town cars, even the occasional chauffeured cruiser marked with family emblems. Damien’s Selvenhardt was hardly alone. For most of the students here, arriving in a privately registered vehicle was standard. Normal. Expected.

But not for her.

Her scholarship covered tuition, housing, meals, even uniforms—but not transit. Not the luxury of door-to-door convenience. Public routes were her only option, and even those came at a cost she had to measure carefully.

So every morning, Isabelle took the metro.

No complaints. No shame. Just reality.

The only downside?

The walk.

She crossed the station platform without pause, weaving through the denser foot traffic until the entrance stairs curved upward. The moment she stepped into open air, the academy spires were visible—tall, elegant, and very far.

‘Seventeen minutes,’ she thought, glancing at her watch. Not a guess. An exact number. She walked it every morning. ‘If I cut across Lyric Street and avoid the construction zone.’

Her pace was brisk, steady, each step precise. The sidewalk here wasn’t crowded—Lynden Street wasn’t a student-heavy entry point. Most of Vermillion’s students had never seen this stretch of road. It wasn’t the clean route. It wasn’t the polished corridor with banners and faculty greeters. It was… the back way.

And maybe that was fitting.

Her breath misted faintly in the morning air as she moved. She adjusted her satchel once, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and pressed forward.

To some, the thought of walking twenty minutes each day before first period would be exhausting. Unreasonable. Even humiliating.

To Isabelle?

It was normal.

It was silence before the storm.

It was the time when she walked alone—not through prestige, but through necessity—and reminded herself why she had to win.

Every single day.

Because this was how far she had to go, just to stand at the same starting line as everyone else.

Just then.

RANG!

A sharp honk split the morning air.

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