Protagonist Syndrome

Chapter 3: The Boys at the Back

Rehan King.

The name clangs around my brain like a dropped pan. Why does it sound so familiar? Oh—wait. Isn’t that the same name as one of the characters in the book Jia gave me? The one I read way too late at night when I should’ve been cramming for my physics quiz?

I blink, trying to piece it together, but Jia’s already stacking her textbooks on her desk with the kind of force that screams: someone’s annoyed. SLAM. SLAM. SLAM. Each book lands like she’s punctuating an angry sentence.

I wisely choose not to ask. Jia has moods. Most of them come with a warning label.

Instead, I glance at the clock. Still no teacher. Weird. Usually by now, someone’s barking at us to sit down and be quiet. Instead, the room’s filling up with chatter and bodies, like a beehive that just remembered it has work to do.

No one’s mentioning the newly renovated classroom or the fact that the space is way bigger than last week. And here I am, stuck on this one guy—the one whose name sounds like it fell straight out of fiction.

I sneak a look at him again. Rehan. He’s sitting quietly, posture straight, eyes calm in a way that’s almost… old-fashioned? There’s this aura about him—like he’s the type who won’t speak unless he has something worth saying. In the book, Rehan King was the only son of a wealthy family, practically groomed to inherit a company, top of his class, and apparently excellent at sports… except for the whole mild asthma thing.

What are the odds?

Could it be—no, that’s stupid. But… could it be?

I mean, sure, there have been weird little coincidences since I got here. Names. Faces. Places. But transmigrating into a novel? That’s the kind of thing you laugh at in fan forums, not in real life.

Right?

Right.

Probably just a transfer student. That’s the logical explanation. Definitely not me waking up inside a paperback.

“INSANE!” a voice suddenly booms from across the room, making my eardrums flinch. “The crowd went nuts when I scored the final goal!”

Oh no. Loud person.

Rapid footsteps thud across the floor. I bite back a groan, wishing for noise-canceling headphones—or maybe a tactical exit.

Jia doesn’t even look up. Her calmness is suspicious. Normally she’d glare daggers at anyone interrupting her “focused” mode.

Curiosity wins over self-preservation, so I glance over… and spot them.

Three boys surrounding Rehan.

One has hair the color of a traffic light mid-meltdown—bright red and impossible to ignore. My pen slips from my fingers and rolls across my desk like it’s trying to join their group. I bend to grab it, muttering under my breath about gravity and timing.

“You’re here! I could’ve sworn you were just with us a minute ago,” the Loud Voice says again, tossing his backpack onto the chair next to Rehan like they own the whole back row.

Wait. Why don’t I know these people? They’re too comfortable to be new, too connected to be strangers.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Jia’s body language—tighter than usual, like she’s forcing herself not to look over.

“The match was unbelievable. You guys should’ve been there. Hey, Arlo, did you do your homework?”

The reply comes in a smooth, almost melodic tone. “I was wondering when you were going to ask—”

Before he can finish, there’s a loud thud. Someone’s head meets a desk. I wince, rubbing my own temple from the pain.

“You good?” Jia asks, leaning toward me. With her hair pulled back, the tiny crease between her brows is obvious.

“I’m fine. Just thought I heard someone say Arlo.”

“Oh. You mean Arlo Miller?”

“Yeah, that,” I say, though my attention’s already bouncing between Jia and the four pairs of eyes that are now, very clearly, aimed at us.

I drop back into my seat and shove my focus into my notebook. Limits. Calculus. Nice, safe math.

“What about him?” Jia’s voice is casual but distant, like she’s humoring me.

“What about what?”

Her lips press together like she’s debating whether to say something. “What about Arlo… I mean…” Her tone dips—soft, maybe even shy?

I glance up. Yep, still being watched. I click my tongue quietly and look at my sister instead.

She’s… different today. Neat uniform, hair tied up, barely any makeup, and—most suspiciously—actually studying.

I almost bring up the book again. Almost. But no, she’d probably accuse me of going insane.

Instead, I ask, “Ji, on the way here I heard something about A4. What’s that?”

Her reaction is instant. She touches my forehead like she’s checking for fever. “Are you sick?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then why are you asking about A4?”

“I dunno. Just curious…”

Something about her stare makes my stomach tighten. It’s like I’ve just stepped on a line I didn’t know existed.

Finally, she sighs and gestures with her thumb toward the back. “Them. Seven Cole, Leyk Novak, Arlo Miller, and Rehan. Remind me to take you to the nurse later—you’re either sick or delusional.”

Third-person POV — the boys’ side

From their seats at the back, the four boys watch the exchange unfold.

“Think she knows?” Leyk mutters under his breath, drumming his fingers against the desk.

Seven snorts. “Nah. She’s probably just nosy.”

Rehan doesn’t look up from his notebook, but there’s a faint crease between his brows. Arlo, lounging like the chair belongs to him, glances toward Elka with an unreadable expression.

“She asked about A4,” Leyk points out.

That earns a subtle lift of Rehan’s eyes. “We keep it quiet. Don’t give her a reason to keep digging.”

Seven grins. “Or,” he says, voice full of mischief, “we give her just enough to make her curious.”

Rehan’s tone sharpens, soft but final. “No.”

Seven rolls his eyes, but there’s no arguing with that voice.

Still, as the girls go back to their notes, the four of them exchange a look—one that says this might get complicated.