Chapter 2: Plot Armor and Broken Locks

When I transmigrated, I was taking a shower.

The fluorescent lights above flickered just a little, their buzz mixing with the hiss of the water. Steam rolled off my skin and clung to the cheap vinyl shower curtain. Somewhere in the background, someone was blasting classic rock from a Bluetooth speaker in the hallway.

Hot water poured over me, filling the room with steam.

I could almost smell the lemony scent of generic body wash and that strange metallic tang that only comes from old pipes in historic Georgia colleges. It all felt strangely familiar, yet totally wrong.

The unfamiliar surroundings made my heart skip a beat. My stomach dropped, the way it does when you miss a step on the stairs.

The tiles were off-white with suspicious cracks, and the mirror, fogged over, showed me a face I hadn’t seen before. My hands shook as I reached out, as if touching the glass might explain how I’d landed here.

Suddenly, a flood of memories crashed into my mind.

It hit me all at once, like scrolling through a year’s worth of memories in five seconds flat. Snapshots, voices, and feelings tumbled in so fast I could barely breathe. My legs went a little wobbly, and I had to brace myself on the slippery edge of the sink.

I’d transmigrated into a book, becoming the female protagonist of a reverse harem college smut novel.

Honestly, if this had happened to me last week, I’d have thought it was a fever dream brought on by too much late-night fanfic.

The original character was Natalie Brooks—a top student and campus beauty at Willowfield Women’s College in Savannah, Georgia.

Southern charm, top grades, and the kind of hair that always looks perfect even in 80% humidity. You know the type—every parent’s dream, every teacher’s favorite. Apparently, now, I was her.

Because of a physics competition, she fell in love at first sight with Derek Miller, the guy who beat her. To get close to her crush, she disguised herself as a guy and enrolled at Granton Men’s College, where Derek studied.

In retrospect, it was just the kind of bonkers, over-the-top plotline that makes you roll your eyes and turn the page. But now, I was stuck living it. Cross-dressing in a Savannah men’s college—cue the Southern Gothic drama and awkward bathroom encounters.

Her plan was simple: proximity breeds affection. As long as she spent enough time with Derek, their feelings would naturally grow.

She’d probably watched too many rom-coms and bought into that old Hollywood myth. I wanted to laugh, but all I could do was hope the plan would work in reverse and keep me alive.

But she never expected that “develop” would be such a literal verb!

And not just one verb, either!

The word “develop” had never sounded so threatening. I could practically see the script notes in the margins: ‘More heat! More chaos! More...everything!’

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Hurried footsteps sounded outside the door.

The slap of bare feet against linoleum echoed like a warning bell. My stomach clenched; I’d never been so grateful for a locked door in my life.

My heart leapt into my throat.

It was that classic horror movie beat—the moment you know something’s about to go terribly, terribly wrong.

In the plot, this bathroom scene was the start of Pandora’s box.

It was the kind of setup that left girls in American college horror stories locking their doors for a reason. Only this time, I was the girl in the story, and the box was about to fly open.

I had to stop this disaster at all costs!

My hands shook as I scanned for anything that might help—a towel, my phone, the tiniest scrap of privacy.

Grabbing a towel, I rushed to slam the door shut.

The towel was still damp and slippery, but I clutched it to my chest like a lifeline as I made a mad dash across the slick tiles.

With a loud bang, the bathroom door—previously cracked open—snapped shut.

The sound echoed down the hallway, sharp enough that anyone nearby would wonder what the hell just happened.

Outside, Marcus Evans was startled.

I could hear the gruff surprise in his voice, his footsteps pausing as if he was rethinking his next move.

He kicked the door angrily. “Who’s in there? Get out, I need to shower.”

He had that southern drawl that made every insult sound like a dare. Probably played football in high school and never lost a fight.

Marcus had a nasty temper, and after getting his butt kicked by Derek on the basketball court, he was fuming.

I pictured him pacing outside, his fists clenching and unclenching, and tried to steady my nerves. That boy had a chip on his shoulder the size of Stone Mountain.

I didn’t dare provoke him, so I pressed hard against the door while quickly getting dressed.

My hands fumbled with my clothes, the towel slipping dangerously as I wrestled into my jeans. Sweat and nerves made everything stick.

Just as I was about to pull on my jeans, Marcus shoved the door open.

The lock must’ve been broken—or maybe it never worked. College housing: a tale as old as time.

I yelled, panicked, “Give me a minute! Just one minute!”

I could hear my voice crack, more desperate than defiant. My knuckles whitened around the waistband of my jeans.

“Natalie!”

Hearing my voice, Marcus got even angrier.

You could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. He always was quick to blow his top.

“So it’s you, you little weirdo. What are you doing in there, messing around?”

He shoved harder, pinning me in the corner like a rag doll.

The bathroom suddenly felt the size of a shoebox, his broad shadow filling the space as he loomed over me.

Before I could react, he came in and yanked away the towel I was clutching.

It all happened in a blur—one second, I was clutching it for dear life, the next, I was exposed, my cheeks burning with humiliation.

He froze. “You… you’re a girl?”

The disbelief in his voice was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. He stared like he was seeing a UFO.

In the heavy silence, I could hear him swallow.

Somewhere in the hallway, someone laughed at a meme. In here, though, time stood still. My heart pounded against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

The big guy who’d barged in full of rage was now so flustered he didn’t know where to put his hands. He stared at my bare thighs, his face getting redder by the second.

He looked like a linebacker who’d just fumbled the winning pass. His eyes darted to the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at me.

I closed my eyes in despair.

So much for stealth. I wanted to crawl under the cracked linoleum and never come out.

Damn it, this must be plot armor—totally unavoidable!

It was like fate itself had penciled in this humiliation, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t erase it.

I yanked up my jeans and glared at Marcus. “I told you to wait a minute. Are you deaf?”

The words came out sharper than I’d intended, my embarrassment morphing into anger.

He scratched his head awkwardly. “Sorry, I didn’t know—”

He looked anywhere but at me, shuffling his feet like a scolded little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Not knowing gives you the right to barge in on someone in the bathroom?”

My voice quivered, half rage, half fear. Years of being told to stand up for myself in Girl Scouts finally paid off—sort of.

Thinking of the tragic fate that awaited me, I threw caution to the wind and let him have it.

My hands balled into fists at my sides. If I was going down, I was going out swinging.

In the original plot, after the heroine’s identity was exposed, she was silent as a stone. She cried and begged him to keep her secret. And what did she get for it?

I remembered those scenes in all their cringey, page-turning horror. No way was I letting myself be turned into a plot device for some guy’s fantasy.

Verbal humiliation, physical assault—her tears only made him more excited.

If begging couldn’t save me, I might as well curse him out.

My words were sharp, my glare sharper. I wanted him to know I wasn’t some helpless girl in a paperback novel.

Clinging to my last shred of hope, I ordered Marcus to leave.

He didn’t back off. Instead, he moved closer.

His breath was heavy, each exhale making the space feel smaller. A flicker of something dangerous flashed in his eyes.

His broad frame blocked out most of the light, casting me in shadow.

I could smell his deodorant—something cheap and overpowering, like he’d drowned himself in Axe before coming home.

I looked up and met his burning gaze.

For a second, I wondered if I’d see my own fear reflected back at me. Instead, all I saw was hunger.

Suddenly, it was like ice water flooded my veins. My joints locked up, and my heart pounded so hard I could barely breathe.

Fight or flight? Too late for either.

“Natalie…” Marcus’s voice was rough.

There was a warning there, or maybe a plea. My head spun.

He came closer and closer.

The space between us shrank to nothing. I could feel the heat coming off his skin, making my cheeks burn all over again.

With nowhere to run, I tried to push him away, but my strength was nothing compared to his.

His hands were like iron cuffs, pinning me to the wall. I gritted my teeth and dug my heels in, but it was no use.

He grabbed my wrists and pinned me to the wall.

His grip was rough, but not bruising. I tried to twist free, but he just held me tighter.

“I never realized how beautiful you are.”

His voice went low, almost like he was confessing a secret. It sent a chill down my spine.

Marcus’s tone was teasing. He looked me up and down from above, his eyes finally landing on my parted lips.

It was the kind of look that would have set off alarm bells in any self-defense class. I braced myself, my mind racing for options.

“After all that yelling, shouldn’t you make it up to me?”

His breath was hot against my cheek, and I could smell a hint of mint gum—one of those little details that sticks with you during a crisis.

He leaned down to kiss me, but I turned my head away.

Reflexes took over. I squeezed my eyes shut and turned my face to the wall.

His warm lips brushed my cheek and landed near my ear.

The whisper-soft contact made my skin crawl. I shivered involuntarily.

Annoyed, Marcus muttered, “Why are you dodging?”

The entitlement in his voice was all too familiar—like every guy who thinks he’s owed something just for showing up.

Dodging you, you creep!

My mind screamed, but I bit my tongue. I’d dealt with jerks before, but never in a body that wasn’t mine.

A sharp pain shot through my chin.

He gripped my jaw, not enough to bruise, but enough to force my attention. My pulse hammered in my ears.

This violent jerk forced me to face him, his voice cold: “Be good. You sure you want everybody finding out what you’re hiding?”

Me: …

The words felt stale, recycled from a hundred bad movies. I almost wanted to laugh—almost.

What kind of cliché villain line is this!

Seriously? Did he rehearse that in the mirror this morning?

When I was just a reader, I loved these over-the-top scenes. Now that I’m the victim, I just want to die.

I always wondered why heroines never fought back. Well, here I was, about to test that theory firsthand.

Begging for mercy was out. Calling the cops was useless.

No one would believe me, not in this reality. I had to take matters into my own hands.

Might as well go all out.

If I was going down, I’d take him with me.

Worst case, we both go down—I’ll fight!

If I couldn’t win, at least I’d make sure he never forgot the day he messed with me.

So when Marcus tried to kiss me again, I bit his lip hard.

I tasted blood—his, not mine. A tiny triumph in the chaos.

Blood stained my teeth as I lifted my knee and pressed it against his crotch.

He gasped, the pain snapping him out of his trance. I pressed harder, just in case.

Marcus let out a muffled groan.

It was the sound of a man reevaluating his life choices. I almost felt sorry for him—almost.

Taking advantage of his distraction, I grabbed his hair and yanked him down to my eye level.

I made sure he knew I wasn’t afraid. My grip was fierce, fueled by pure adrenaline.

Then, staring into his lust-filled face, I slapped him a few times.

Each slap rang out, the echo satisfying in a way nothing else could be right now.

“Who said you could kiss me?”

My voice was steady, almost bored. I wanted him to know I wasn’t his victim.

Thanks to the plot, I knew that, despite Marcus’s tough exterior, he was actually a bit of a masochist.

I remembered the way he acted in the story—tough on the outside, but weirdly thrilled by being dominated.

He liked being dominated, and when things got heated, he’d even guide the heroine to choke him.

The mental image almost made me laugh out loud. What a trip.

A little pain and breathlessness turned him on.

I was gambling, and the stakes were high. But this was America, and sometimes a well-timed slap was worth more than a thousand apologies.

So I was gambling.

I was betting Marcus wouldn’t get mad at being slapped—instead, he’d get even more excited.

Sure enough, the hard bulge pressing against my knee confirmed it.

He shuddered, caught somewhere between agony and bliss. I held my ground, refusing to give him any more power.

Marcus arched his back, face flushed, forehead pressed to my shoulder, his body shaking with every breath.

God, he was really getting off on this.

I tried not to gag. At least my gamble was paying off.

I mentally counted the time.

My brain ticked through the plot beats, desperate for the next interruption.

In the original plot, to ramp up the drama, the author made the roommates come back right as things got hot.

It was classic—just when things were about to hit rock bottom, someone would burst in and break the spell.

I’d stalled for a while, so the roommates should be back any minute.

Any second now, I told myself. Just hold on a little longer.

Sure enough—

The door banged open, and four roommates came in, laughing and talking.

Their laughter echoed down the hall, a much-needed lifeline.

“Weird, didn’t Marcus get back first? Where is he?”

I could hear the rustling of backpacks, the thunk of shoes kicked off onto tile.

“Probably showering.”

“Really?”

Someone walked toward the bathroom.

Footsteps thudded closer. My heart started racing again.

“Marcus? You in there?”

Marcus grunted.

His grip on my shoulders tightened, but his whole body trembled. For a moment, he looked like he was about to cry.

He gripped my shoulders, knees weak, eyes filling with tears of mixed frustration and excitement.

I pressed my knee harder and chuckled: “I don’t care if my secret gets out, but you probably wouldn’t want anyone else joining us, would you?”

The look on his face said it all. I’d found his weak spot, and now I was twisting the knife.

Seeing Marcus’s face darken, I knew I’d hit the mark.

His lips thinned, and his jaw worked. He hated sharing, hated losing control.

Marcus was naturally possessive and domineering. Unless something extreme happened, he’d never accept sharing a woman with others.

Thank God for toxic masculinity—for once, it was working in my favor.

So, as soon as the roommates came back, I was safe.

It was like a switch flipped in the room. Marcus straightened, all bravado gone.

“What are you standing there for? Answer them. Or do you want them to barge in too?”

My words dripped with sarcasm, but inside, I was shaking.

Marcus gritted his teeth.

His jaw clenched so hard I thought he might crack a molar.

Forcing himself upright, he yelled at the door, “What do you want? If it’s nothing, get lost!”

His voice came out rough, but steady—just enough to send them packing.

The guy outside knew Marcus’s temper and wasn’t surprised. He just shook his head and left.

The tension in the hallway evaporated. Someone muttered something about minding their own business, and the door closed with a soft click.

Once he was gone, I smiled and patted Marcus’s face. “We’re done here. Don’t let there be a next time.”

Shame burned through me, but underneath, a stubborn voice whispered: don’t let him see you break. I made sure to look him dead in the eyes. My message was clear: mess with me again, and next time, I won’t be so nice.

But as I left, I could feel Marcus’s eyes burning into my back. This wasn’t over.