Young Master's PoV: Woke Up As A Villain In A Game One Day - Chapter 402: How To Deal With A Depressed Friend? Be More Depressed! [II]

Chapter 402: How To Deal With A Depressed Friend? Be More Depressed! [II]

I frowned. “What do you mean, ’what changed’?”

Michael crossed his legs and leaned onto the armrest at his side.

I can’t believe I’m actually saying this… but even I had to admit that under the natural lighting provided by the mid-morning sunrays pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he looked really handsome.

There was something about the messy black curls and those baggy dark circles under his eyes that intensified his appeal.

My frown deepened into a scowl.

I had heard people claim that grief makes a person more attractive, but was it actually true? Should I ever try it?

Unbeknownst to my ADHD-fueled internal ramblings, Michael clarified, “I mean, why do you even care so much about Julia brushing you off? What exactly has changed between then and now?”

I wanted to bash my head against the nearest marble pillar.

Because that was exactly the problem, wasn’t it? I didn’t have a single clue what had changed!

First things first, I decided to drop the mental gymnastics and finally confront my feelings head-on.

So for starters, I was going to stop pretending I didn’t like Juliana. I did. I had tried to avoid it at first, thinking that if I simply refused to put the thoughts into words, I could escape them.

But after what happened this morning, I had no other option.

What happened this morning? I’ll get back to that later.

Anyway, so yes, the truth is that I’ve always sort of liked Juliana. It wasn’t exactly a new development.

After all, she was one of the hottest girls I had ever seen, so at least some degree of physical attraction was going to be there. And call me shallow if you want, but looks have always mattered to me.

But even if I put her stunning appearance aside, there was a persistent infatuation I felt for her that I’d never really questioned.

I always loved getting a reaction out of her, I was always far too lenient on her when she stepped out of line, and I always kept finding excuses to keep her close. There were many little details like these.

But the crushing guilt of what I’d done to her, combined with the fact that she was my Shadow, always kept me from ever rationalizing those feelings into something… more.

Because, as I’ve said, she was my Shadow

. That was a line I didn’t want to cross.

Even if she was willing to blur it, even if she had already started crossing it in ways I pretended to ignore… I still couldn’t do it.

It wouldn’t be right. I was, for all intents and purposes, her oppressor. Her master. Shadow was just a pretty word for a slave.

She was my slave.

Our entire dynamic and our shared history, the very foundation of our relationship… it was all so toxic and fundamentally wrong.

And to top it off, the girl was certifiably insane!

And I don’t mean cute insane, either! I mean insane insane. That was my other main problem.

I was genuinely scared to even imagine what was going on inside her head sometimes.

I mean, the girl collected the fingernails of her victims as trophies and thought sharing them with me was a grand gesture of trust, for fuck’s sake!

How could you ever think of pursuing anything normal with someone like that?!

You don’t! So, I didn’t.

I kept her locked out of my mind. I never let myself finish any of those yearning thoughts that started drifting in her direction.

It was easier that way.

…At least, it used to be.

But lately, it seemed like she was all that I could think about! Like she was the only thing constantly on my mind!

I don’t know when this started, but it was some time before the midterms.

And over the course of our journey through the Noctveil Wilds, I had only grown more and more enamored without even realizing it.

But everything was still somewhat manageable, I was still successfully shoving aside my feelings… until this morning.

Up until my head was replaying every second of last night on a loop. I couldn’t think of anything else but that dance floor… that feeling of her soft body pressed tightly against mine with her warm breath ghosting over my lips… my hand roaming so freely down the curve of her back, and the sensation of her delicate waist in my arm…

Fuck! It was all so vivid… I…

Arghh!

My own depravity disgusted me just as much as it freaked me out.

How could I even let myself go there? I honestly had no idea.

My craving for her attention had spiraled so far out of control that I was actually sitting here sad and miserable just because she gave me the cold shoulder this morning.

When did it get this bad? When did I become so obsessed with her without even noticing? Again, no fucking idea!

It was like I was trapped in a trance, like she’d put me under some kind of spell. I was going completely insane. My brain just refused to let her thoughts go.

If love potions were real, I’d have seriously doubted her to poison me with a strong dose.

But the most pathetic part was that I probably didn’t even want to be cured. As if I were addicted to the fever. Even right now, with Michael sitting right there, all I wanted was to see her… to have her back in my space… to…

“Fuck!” I barked, slamming my face into my palms.

Michael, still nursing his smoothie, watched my hunched frame for a long moment in silence. Then he gave a slow nod. “Okay. I think whatever this is, it’s beyond my area of expertise. We need Alexia.”

I nodded into my hands, the heat in my face refusing to die down.

We definitely needed Alexia…

•••

By late afternoon, we had finished our packing.

Okay, fine, we barely did anything.

I just put my servants to work, because obviously, I wasn’t going to do something as menial as folding my own clothes.

What am I, a peasant?

And while I was at it, I also ordered them to fetch a tailor for Michael.

All of his outfits were so bland and tasteless that I wanted to throw up whenever I saw him dressed. Also, now I was certain he didn’t even have those left.

The last time I was in his room, I noted there was hardly anything there. Bare walls, no curtains on the windows, a bed frame without a mattress, and not even a wardrobe.

It looked more like a prison cell than an actual dorm room.

All of his clothes were bunched up in a small laundry basket, and there weren’t even enough garments to fill the basket completely… which made the whole sight even more depressing than it already was.

He must’ve taken everything with him to the Night Sanctuary. And Night Sanctuary was now no more, leaving him destitute in both money and clothes — even more so than before.

It was such a somber realization that I couldn’t help but chip in.

Naturally, he tried to complain even as the tailor arrived to take his measurements.

“Sam, this is too much!” he said, forced to stand straight with his arms raised up high. “I can buy cheap outfits from thrift stores when we get back to the—”

I physically retched before he could finish, my gag reflex acting up at the words ’thrift store.’

No, really!

I had to actually hold up a hand to physically block his sentence from entering my bloodstream.

“Do not,” I said slowly, “say that in my presence ever again. What are you, a peasant?!”

“…Yes?” Michael blinked. “And it’s just clothes, Sam.”

“It’s a tragedy!”

The tailor, an elegant middle-aged man with keen eyes and a measuring tape, cleared his throat politely.

“The Young Master is right,” he said. “Clothes make the man.”

Michael blinked again. “I… I thought it was manners?”

“It’s both,” the tailor replied curtly before turning to me. “So, what are you thinking, my lord?”

I shrugged. “Let’s start with the basics. Two suits. One in a deep charcoal and the other in a midnight navy. And make them three-piece. He needs the structure of a waistcoat to hold him together, since his personality clearly won’t do the job.”

Michael opened his mouth to protest, probably to mention thrift stores again, but I glared him into silence.

“A wise choice, my lord,” the tailor murmured. “Wool?”

“Of course,” I said matter-of-factly. “Aside from that, we’ll need at least half a dozen shirts. High-thread-count cotton, obviously. Two-ply, so they don’t turn translucent when he breaks a sweat thinking about dying alone.”

The tailor nodded seriously, his pen scratching against a notepad. “And the weave, my lord?”

“Basics, again. Poplin for the formal wear,” I replied, “but give him a few Oxfords as well. We can experiment with what works on him later.”

Michael looked between us, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Okay, what the hell is a two-ply? Is that like toilet paper? Sam, are you going to make me wear toilet paper?!”

I closed my eyes and breathed through my nose, praying for the strength not to strike him before returning to my instructions regarding trousers and blazers.

I also asked my maids to bring him some everyday wear like t-shirts and slacks that didn’t look like they were salvaged from a shipwreck, which was his usual aesthetic.

By the time I finished the list with loafers and boots and sneakers, Michael was sweating bullets with his head clutched between his hands.

“Sam! Sam! Sam! This is really all too much! I have never spent this much money in my life! How would I ever pay you back?!”

You have no idea how difficult it was for me to hold back from bursting into hearty laughter right in his face.

Oh, you will, buddy. You will. You’ll pay me back when I work you to the bone! — I thought, hiding a satisfied smirk behind a well-timed cough.