Protagonist Syndrome

Chapter 5: Warnings in Lip Gloss

POV: Elka

"Trash like you belongs in the dumpster."

"Just because you went to the same school as A4 last year, you think you're better than us?"

The voices are sharp, high-pitched, and dripping venom.

I haven’t even been gone twenty minutes, and Jia’s already in trouble.

From where I’m standing at the hallway corner, I can see her pressed against a locker, three girls circling her like they’re in some B-grade teen drama where the villains travel in trios. The cafeteria is still noisy behind me—trays clattering, voices rising—but somehow no one notices what’s happening. Or maybe they just don’t care.

"Look at me when I’m talking to you."

If this were my world—real life—I’d walk right past without a second thought. Not because I’m heartless, but because sticking my nose in other people’s messes usually means inheriting those messes myself.

But this isn’t just anyone.

This is Jia.

And if I remember the book’s timeline correctly, we’re still in the first chapter… maybe early in the second. This is when the protagonist turns into a magnet for unnecessary bullying, all because of a stupid rumor that she used to attend the same school as A4. That’s it. That’s the scandal. Forget murder or embezzlement—here, mere association is apparently enough to ruin a life.

If I’d been around when the author wrote this, I would have thrown my laptop at them.

"Not going to say anything? Pretty tough, huh?"

A sharp smack echoes down the hall, followed by the hollow clang of someone being shoved against a locker.

I peek around the corner. Jia’s on the floor now, her hair in disarray, eyes unfocused.

This is exactly what the writer wanted—Jia taking the hit, swallowing the humiliation, staying quiet. Even if I step in now, she’ll just keep pretending nothing’s wrong. The story will roll on as if nothing happened.

It’s… irritating.

I rake a hand through my hair and sigh. There’s still twenty minutes until the next class, and honestly, I’d rather claim a front-row seat before the chatterboxes fill the place.

So, I turn and walk away.

The corridors here are still a labyrinth to me, and every time I remember I’m inside a book, my brain short-circuits a little. If you’d told me yesterday that transmigration was real, I’d have laughed and booked you a psychiatric evaluation.

I push open the classroom door and spot someone already there—head down, fast asleep.

Perfect. Five minutes of silence.

I pull my chair out, but the screech against the tile is loud enough to make the sleeper stir. He sits up, hair mussed, expression sour.

"Can’t you see someone’s trying to sleep here?" His voice is gravelly, the kind you only get from a nap you didn’t want interrupted.

I look up—and freeze. Seven.

At this point in the story, he’s barely holding it together. His father’s dumping all the household burdens on him, making him work late hours at the office on top of school. No wonder he’s exhausted.

Hang in there, Seven. Just one more year.

"I’ll be quiet," I say simply.

His brow lifts like he wasn’t expecting compliance. "What?"

I don’t bother repeating myself. Instead, I lean forward, fold my arms on the desk, and let the hum of the classroom lull me into a half-doze.

By the time classes end, I feel more relief than I should for something as basic as surviving the school day.

Jia doesn’t show up until the last period. I don’t need to ask where she was—I can see the swelling along her jaw, the way she tucks her hair forward to hide it. She doesn’t meet my eyes.

If I were the real Lottie—the character whose life I’ve stolen—I’d ignore it. Maybe give her a vague pat on the back and call it a day.

But I’m not her.

So when the final bell rings, I tell Jia to wait for me outside the school. "Just a quick bathroom break," I say.

Except I don’t go into the bathroom.

I lean against the cool wall just outside the door, arms folded. From the muffled chatter inside, I count at least five girls. But only three matter.

The first one leaves, then the second.

Perfect.

I c***k my knuckles and step in just as my targets are heading toward the stalls—lip gloss and compacts in hand.

"Busy day?" I ask casually.

They glance at me but ignore the question.

Pity. If they’d been paying attention, they might have noticed the thin wire I pull from my pocket. In less than a minute, I’ve looped it through the stall handles, locking them in place.

By the time the third girl steps inside, I’m already leaning against the sinks, admiring my handiwork.

"Hey!"

"Is someone out there?"

"This isn’t funny! Let us out!"

"It’s hilarious from where I’m standing," I reply. "Think of it as… an early warning system. The next time you mess with Jia, I won’t be this polite."

They start banging on the doors. One of them tries the classic intimidation tactic:

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’d better let us out! My dad’s on the school board. I can get you expelled!"

"Tempting offer," I say, heading for the door. "But I think I’ll pass. Enjoy the rest of your… beauty session."

The sound of their panicked voices follows me down the hall.

By the time I reach the school gates, Jia’s standing there—chatting with someone.

"If you want, I could give you a ride home," says Arlo, the picture of kindness. His voice is soft, his eyes warm.

Poor guy. It’s always the good ones who get crushed in stories like this. No matter how much they care, they never make it to the endgame.

If I could save him from that, I would. But this story isn’t mine to rewrite—at least, not anymore.

The moment I realized where I was—that I was inside the story—I made my choice:

Stay out of it.

No more meddling. No more altering fates.

Maybe once Jia gets her happy ending, I’ll finally go home.

She spots me and waves, bright and happy despite everything.

I give her a small smile in return.

For now… this is my life