Protagonist Syndrome

Chapter 4: The Rooftop Interrogation

I’m pacing the rooftop like a paranoid cat, my sneakers squeaking faintly on the concrete with each turn. It’s not like I came up here to pace—no, I came up here for peace, the kind you can only get when you’re a few flights above all the chaos.

Normally, the rooftop is the place for people who don’t want to deal with anyone during lunch break. The wind’s cooler up here, the air smells less like cafeteria mystery-meat, and the view is almost enough to make you forget this is still a school. You can see the whole city—cars like tiny beetles crawling along the road, glass buildings catching the sun just right.

Today, though, I have the roof all to myself. Not even the nap-takers or the gossiping duos showed up. Which means… my thoughts are louder than usual.

And my thoughts aren’t exactly behaving.

Alright, let’s break down the situation.

I swear I fell asleep last night. Like, closed my eyes, drifted off, the whole thing. But here I am, wide awake, wearing clothes I didn’t choose, in a school that doesn’t exist in my real life. So, either my brain is pulling the most elaborate lucid dream prank in history, or…

No. Don’t say it.

But I can’t help noticing how real everything feels. I can hear the soft buzz of the rooftop lights, the distant sound of basketballs thumping against the court below. Ants are crawling across the pole beside me in perfect military formation. A bird cuts through the sky with those elegant wing flaps you never see in cartoons. Even the breeze feels real, brushing my hair against my cheek in that annoying-but-not-unpleasant way.

Dreams aren’t supposed to have this much detail.

There’s only one way to be sure.

I pinch the skin on my forearm between my thumb and index finger, twist it—

“Ah—!” I hiss, jerking back from my own hand. Pain blooms instantly. Okay. Not a dream.

Which leaves me with the most ridiculous possibility: I’m inside the book. The one where Jia is the female lead.

I laugh out loud, but it comes out choked, like my voice can’t decide whether to panic or find this funny. Questions crash into me all at once. What happened? Why me? Is there a glitch in the universe? Did some higher power spin a wheel and land on “Throw her into fictional drama for fun”?

No matter how I slice it, this shouldn’t be happening.

A loud clash snaps me out of my mental spiral. I whip around and spot a toppled trash bin rolling on its side. Standing right beside it, in the middle of regaining his balance, is—

Oh, great.

Red hair.

Arlo.

Even without an introduction, I know it’s him. The solemn eyes, that air of confidence you can’t fake—everything matches the book’s description perfectly. Except the book didn’t warn me that his presence in real life would send my anxiety levels into orbit.

His gaze locks on mine. His brows twitch in thought. Then, without warning, he smiles. A perfectly pleasant, almost angelic smile. The kind of smile that would convince an old lady to hand over her last cookie.

“There you are,” he says, voice smooth, casual, too casual. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Yeah. I don’t like the sound of that.

I tilt my head slowly, pretending to be confused—which isn’t hard, because I am confused. Why’s he talking like we’re friends? Or worse, like we have some pre-existing arrangement. Unless he’s the type to just… greet strangers and hope for the best.

He starts walking toward me, and wow, he is taller than I imagined. The book did call these boys “the most handsome teens of the century,” but that was clearly an understatement. Standing in front of him is like being hit with a high-definition reality check.

“You didn’t forget, did you?” he asks.

“…What?” The word slips out before I can even think.

His smile flickers for half a second, like I’ve just told him I don’t remember his birthday. His gaze drifts down to my wrist, then back up.

“I’ll remind you,” he says, still smiling. “That watch. Return it.”

That’s when I finally look at my wrist. I don’t recognize this watch. It’s heavy, gold, intricate. Something out of a catalog where the prices are listed as “inquire for details” because they’re too high to print.

And then, click.

Jia’s the female lead here. Which means I must be—oh, no. No, no, no. I’m Lottie. That Lottie. The troublemaker. The jealous, drama-stirring side character who exists solely to make the protagonist’s life harder. The one who, in this exact arc, steals a watch.

Fantastic. I’ve been isekai’d into a villainess role without even getting the courtesy of a warning letter.

In the book, Lottie gets zero sympathy from anyone—especially not from Arlo and his friends. She’s stubborn, irritating, and doesn’t think before she acts. Which means that in the original timeline, she wouldn’t just hand over the watch.

But I’m not Lottie.

I’m me. And I have zero interest in letting this escalate into a school rooftop version of Law & Order.

Without a word, I unclasp the watch and hold it out.

His brows lift slightly, like he’s surprised.

“Well, that was easy,” he says, taking it.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“Hm?”

“If I’ve stolen anything else, might as well tell me now.” My tone is half-joking, half-serious. If he’s got a list, better to just deal with it all at once.

He studies me for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out why I’m not matching Lottie’s usual script. Then that smile is back—warm, but somehow sharper now. He brings the watch up, inspecting it.

“This will be fine for now.”

For now.

The words hang in the air, heavier than they should be.