Blessed to be the Villain-Chapter 55: A Cowered

Staring at the closed door for a long moment, Ethan let out a slow breath, his eyes dark and slightly dazed.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" he thought, fingers twitching slightly as he rubbed them against his temple.

His body still felt warm, his pulse a touch too fast. The memory of Anna's flushed cheeks, her soft voice thanking him, and the way her eyes flicked away shyly—all of it clung to him, unsettling. This wasn't the first time he'd lost a bit of control over his mouth or his expressions, but this time... this time felt different. More intense. More real. Like something inside him had shifted—subtly but undeniably.

He felt as if he was fighting someone inside his own skin. That wasn't normal. That couldn't be normal.

Just then, the system's voice rang out in his head, crisp as always but laced with a rare seriousness:

{Host, you're not wrong. You are losing control. More accurately, you're losing control over this body.}

Ethan's eyes narrowed as he sat up straighter on the bed, his fingers curling into the sheets.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his mental voice sharp.

{Well, this body isn't fully compatible with your soul. And after everything you did today—fighting, running, thinking, pushing your limits—it's started to resist. It's rejecting some of your unfamiliar commands in favor of more instinctive ones.}

Ethan blinked rapidly, trying to wrap his mind around the explanation. "So you're telling me the body is acting on its own?"

{Not quite. Think of it like... muscle memory versus conscious movement. Your soul is trying to move left, but the body remembers turning right. And now that it's been pushed, it's defaulting to what it knows.}

A flicker of worry passed through Ethan's chest. His throat felt dry. "So... is something wrong with me?"

{No. This is actually quite normal in cases like yours. The issue only became this noticeable because you're exhausted. Normally, the differences would stay beneath the surface. The more time you spend in this body, the more you'll synchronize. Given enough time, your soul and the body will adapt to each other.}

Ethan let out a shaky breath, some relief softening his posture, but a kernel of unease remained. "And how long until that happens? How long until I have full control again?"

{Approximately four to five months.}

Ethan hissed softly, sucking in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. That felt like forever. He couldn't afford to be like this for months.

"Is there any way to speed it up?" he asked, hope flickering in his voice.

{Well... yes, there is.}

Ethan's eyes lit up. "Tell me."

{It's simple. Stop resisting the body's instincts so much. The constant suppression is slowing the synchronization process. Letting go a bit will help speed it up.}

Ethan fell silent.

His expression turned unreadable, eyes shadowed with doubt and hesitation. The idea... was tempting. Dangerous. And all too familiar.

He let out a low chuckle, bitter and humorless. "No. I can't do that."

Not because of some noble moral compass. It wasn't about ethics or decency. Ethan had no illusions about that.

The truth was... he was afraid.

Back on Earth, Ethan was an average guy in most respects—grades, hobbies, even social skills. But there was one thing that set him apart, though not in a way anyone would be proud of.

He was a coward.

Not just the everyday kind of fear. No, he knew it. Owned it. Embraced it.

He feared pain, feared responsibilities, feared horror movies and ghost stories. Once, he'd seen someone slip on a staircase and fracture their leg. After that, he avoided stairs for a week. Even when he used them again, he climbed with the caution of an old man, holding the railing like it was a lifeline.

Most people lied to themselves. They pretended they were brave. Denied their fear to others, and even to themselves. But not Ethan.

Ethan knew.

He was the kind of guy who acted immature on purpose, just to avoid more responsibility. He didn't pursue relationships—too risky. Too much chance of being hurt. Even when a girl showed interest first, he'd back off.

He never touched alcohol, never smoked, never did drugs. Not because he was disciplined, but because he didn't trust himself. He knew how easily he could fall, how addicting it might become. That self-awareness kept him grounded.

"Prevention is better than cure." That was his personal mantra.

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And the instincts of this new body... they were like drugs.

Addictive. Overpowering. Dangerous.

Earlier that morning, when he let go for just a moment, it was exhilarating. Like a rush of adrenaline and confidence and heat. But it had scared him, too.

What if he let go again? What if he couldn't stop next time?

Even if his soul and body became perfectly compatible, he feared he'd already be lost. Not himself anymore. Just a puppet of instincts, urges, and impulses.

He gritted his teeth.

"No. I'll endure it. I won't lose myself."

He made that silent vow to himself, a promise forged in trembling fear and iron resolve.

Letting out a long breath, Ethan leaned back on the bed, trying to relax, trying to empty his mind.

But it didn't work.

His mind refused to settle. Thoughts buzzed like insects, flickering between the system's words, his own fears, and Anna's soft expression. Sleep danced just out of reach.

Groaning softly, he sat up again, ruffling his hair. "Screw this."

Then, a sudden idea struck him.

"The books."

He'd bought a few books earlier today from the library. Reading always helped. If nothing else, it might bore him into sleep.

He reached over to the small wooden cupboard beside his bed. The wood creaked slightly as he opened it, and the scent of old paper greeted him, oddly comforting.

Pulling one book out, he looked at the cover. The letters were embossed in faded gold.

"Influence on Society After the Great Separation."

"Great," he muttered with a wry smirk, "A bedtime story about historical trauma."

Still, he opened the book, the pages soft and yellowed, the smell earthy and old.

As he leaned back against the headboard, holding the book in one hand, he exhaled slowly.

"Just a few pages," he told himself, blinking slowly. "Then I'll sleep."

The weight of the day clung to him like a second skin, but for now, he let himself drift into words and history, pushing everything else into the background.