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

The blaring of the alarm cut through the silence like a knife, dragging Damien out of unconsciousness with all the grace of a brick to the skull. His hand shot out on instinct, slamming the clock with unnecessary force before groaning.

"Haaah…"

His body felt like lead. Heavy. Uncooperative. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to close his eyes again, to sink back into the sheets and let exhaustion reclaim him.

Tch.

He clenched his jaw.

"This fucking body…"

The words were a low, irritated mumble as he forced himself upright, gripping his forehead. His head pounded with dull resistance, his limbs sluggish, his very existence protesting against this early awakening. His body—Damien's body—was fighting him, stubbornly clinging to bad habits like an undisciplined child.

"Useless," he muttered, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. His muscles ached, not from exertion, but from sheer inactivity. His previous self had been so pathetically undisciplined that even waking up at a reasonable hour felt unnatural. It was ridiculous.

His fingers curled into the sheets. No, not just ridiculous. Infuriating.

Damien sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth and exhaled slowly. Complaining wouldn't change anything. He had taken this body, and now it was his problem.

Dragging himself to his feet, he stumbled slightly before regaining balance.

"First things first."

His voice was still hoarse with sleep as he made his way to the bathroom, flicking on the lights. The harsh brightness stung his eyes, but he didn't hesitate. He stepped inside, stripped off his nightclothes, and turned the shower handle. A blast of cold water struck his skin, shocking him fully awake.

Tch. He had meant to set it to warm.

Whatever.

The icy sting bit into his nerves, forcing his sluggish body into alertness. Damien tilted his head back, letting the water cascade over his face, down his neck, over his shoulders. The sensation was grounding, cutting through the lingering exhaustion clouding his mind.

And then—

Something shifted.

His breath hitched.

His vision blurred.

A wave of dizziness slammed into him without warning, his balance swaying as a strange, numbing weakness spread through his limbs.

What the hell—?

[Warning: Host is experiencing withdrawal symptoms.]

Damien barely registered the system's voice before another wave of nausea rolled through him. His stomach twisted, his body trembling under the sudden assault of symptoms. His heart pounded too fast, too erratic, his skin clammy despite the cold water running over him.

"Shit," he muttered, bracing a hand against the wall to steady himself.

[The previous host maintained a dependency on multiple substances to cope with stress and physical strain. With detoxification now in progress, host will experience side effects, including dizziness, fatigue, and cognitive impairment.]

Damien's grip tightened on the wet tiles. His jaw clenched.

Of course.

Of course that idiot had been using something. This wasn't just a weak body—it was a body that had been dependent on crutches for who knew how long. And now that he had stopped, now that he was forcing this body to function without shortcuts—

It was fighting back.

His vision swam again, his pulse hammering in his ears. His entire body felt wrong. Too hot and too cold at the same time, weak in places it shouldn't be, like something was crawling beneath his skin.

A withdrawal response.

Tch.

Damien exhaled sharply, forcing himself to stand straight despite the overwhelming urge to slump against the wall.

It didn't matter.

He would push through it.

Damien sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers digging into the wet tiles as his body screamed for reprieve. The weakness, the nausea, the trembling—it was all so familiar. A sensation he had endured before. Back when he was nothing more than a prisoner in his own decaying flesh.

Back when he had no choice but to suffer.

But now?

Now, he had a choice.

His grip tightened, muscles straining, refusing to let the weight of withdrawal drag him down.

Mere drugs will not stop me.

A lifetime ago, he had spent his days in bed, hooked to machines, reduced to nothing but a body that barely functioned. He had known what it meant to be powerless, to have his own flesh betray him. But he had hated it. Despised it with every fiber of his being.

That helplessness was gone.

This was his second chance.

And he would never waste it.

A sharp chime echoed in his mind.

[Trait [Does Not Bend] is active.]

The moment the words appeared, something inside him shifted. The nausea didn't vanish, nor did the trembling, but the control returned. His body may have been weak, but his mind wasn't. The symptoms clawed at him, trying to pull him under, but he met them with sheer force of will.

His breath steadied. His vision sharpened.

He stood upright.

Good.

Without another word, he finished his shower, dried off, and stepped out of the bathroom. The moment he entered his bedroom, his sharp gaze swept the space.

As expected—Elysia was gone.

His smirk was faint, but satisfied. She must have gone to fulfill his directive. He had expected as much.

Still, she must have her own questions.

How had he known about that place? How had he given such specific orders with such confidence?

But Elysia was not the type to ask immediately.

She would find the answers herself.

Damien exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders as he pushed aside the lingering discomfort in his body.

One step at a time.

Today was only the beginning.

Damien moved toward his wardrobe, pulling it open with a smooth motion. Rows of tailored suits, expensive dress shirts, and luxury ensembles lined the space, all meticulously arranged—each outfit likely hand-picked by the house staff.

Useless.

They were all useless to him right now.

Suits designed for a man of influence, not a man of action.

And right now?

He needed comfort, mobility—something practical.

His fingers moved through the fabrics until they landed on something simpler—a plain black athletic shirt and dark joggers. Not particularly stylish, but functional.

He pulled them on, rolling his shoulders experimentally. The fabric stretched comfortably, far better than the restrictive tailored clothing he had worn at dinner the night before.

Much better.

After lacing up a pair of sneakers, Damien ran a hand through his damp hair and glanced at the clock.

Breakfast time.

Normally, this meant nothing to him.

The old Damien had never once arrived on time for a meal.

He had been a lazy, gluttonous bastard who dragged himself out of bed whenever he pleased, strolling into the dining hall hours late and expecting food to still be served.

But today?

Today, he would be early.

No—he would be first.

The change would not go unnoticed.

With a final glance in the mirror, he smirked before stepping out of his room.

The hallways of the Elford estate were immaculate, as always.

Damien's footsteps echoed against the polished marble as he moved, his pace steady, unhurried.

Along the way, he passed various staff members, most of whom had long since learned to ignore his presence.

Yet today, their eyes lingered.

Surprise. Confusion.

The young master was awake. On time.

He almost laughed.

It was a simple thing—arriving early—but for Damien Elford, it was an impossibility.

Until now.

He descended the grand staircase, reaching the dining hall doors just as the staff was preparing the table.

And as he stepped inside—

The first thing he noticed was that he was alone.

The second thing?

The faint, almost invisible hesitation in the head butler's movements as he looked up and saw him.

It was slight. Almost imperceptible.

But Damien caught it.