Going off script

"Are you okay?" Dante asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

I rolled my eyes. Here we go.

And then—something clicked in my brain.

Wait. No.

I knew exactly what was about to happen next.

No, no, no. I am not doing this right now.

I had already suffered enough humiliation today. I did not need to go through the next part of the script.

My body tensed. I needed to stop this. Divert the conversation. Walk away. Do anything but let this scene play out the way it was supposed to—

But my mouth betrayed me.

"Why did you meddle between us?!" My voice shot up before I could stop it.

Oh no.

I felt it instantly. That strange, suffocating force—the story's invisible grip tightening around me. I was locked in. The words were pouring out before I could stop them, my emotions bubbling over, pushing me forward despite the alarms blaring in my head.

Please. Just shut up. Stop talking. Right now.

But I couldn't.

Dante's brows furrowed, his expression shifting from concern to confusion. His lips parted slightly, like he wasn't expecting this reaction.

I clenched my fists, frustration boiling in my chest. I had no control. I knew what would happen next, and yet—

I stepped forward and shoved him.

Dante didn't even move.

I blinked.

He didn't budge.

Not even an inch.

Embarrassing.

A second of painful silence stretched between us as realization sank in.

Oh. Right.

I was weak.

I was pathetically weak.

I might have had the title of a "villain" in this world, but I wasn't some terrifying, all-powerful antagonist. No. I was the annoying stepping stone.

A joke.

And worse—I had just reminded everyone of it.

Students in the cafeteria whispered, their amused murmurs crawling under my skin. I could feel their judgment, their pitying gazes.

Even Dante looked at me like I was some fragile little thing that needed protection.

I gritted my teeth.

Just accept it. Move on. You are weak.

But the burning shame in my chest wouldn't let me.

It clawed at my insides, gnawed at my pride, and whispered, Do something. Anything.

And so—I did.

Before I even processed what was happening, my body moved on its own. My fist clenched, arm swinging forward with all the force I could muster.

And then—

A solid impact.

My knuckles collided directly with Dante's face.

Silence.

Time froze.

The world itself seemed to glitch for a second, like a scratched record skipping a beat.

The whispers stopped. The claps halted. The protagonist aura that surrounded Dante flickered, as if the very universe was struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

And me?

I stood there, my hand still in midair, staring.

Huh?

My brain blanked out.

How?

How the heck did I go off script?!

My breath hitched. My heart pounded against my ribs, the weight of what I had just done crashing down all at once.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

I wasn't supposed to be able to hit him.

The story—the damn rules—should have stopped me. Should have forced my body to hesitate, should have made Dante dodge effortlessly like the scripted, all-powerful hero he was.

And yet—

I just punched the protagonist.

And it landed.

Dante staggered back slightly, his head snapping to the side from the force. A red mark was already forming on his cheek. He blinked, stunned, his usual calm expression cracking for the first time.

The cafeteria remained dead silent.

Everyone stared.

No one breathed.

Not even me.

Slowly, Dante turned his head back to face me, his eyes shadowed beneath his bangs. Something unreadable flickered in his gaze—not anger, not surprise, but curiosity.

As if he had just witnessed something impossible.

And honestly?

So had I.