It was past midnight. The dorm was silent, everyone supposed to be asleep.
Aslan lay on his bed, arms behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"Finally. Peace."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A soft knock echoed in the quiet.
Aslan didn't move. "George. Is that you? Why are you out there so late?"
He got up and opened the door.
George stood outside, adjusting his glasses. "I had some work left, so I got delayed. Were you worried about me?"
Aslan groaned. "That's not a thing."
George stepped in and plopped down cross-legged on his bed. "Want to hear something interesting?"
"No."
"Too late." He grinned. "Did you know Cael trains with a weighted sword every morning at exactly 5:23 a.m.? He increases the weight by 0.5 kg every three days. Today, he was at 6.5."
Aslan slowly sat up. "…What?"
George's eyes sparkled. "Also, Alice likes spicy food but hates cinnamon. His boots are always shiny, but the left one has a scratch near the toe—he kicks his desk leg when thinking."
Aslan blinked. "How do you even know all this?"
"I observe," George said proudly. "Also, read. Combine pattern recognition with memory retention and voilà!"
"You stalk people."
"I prefer 'efficient ambient data collector.'"
Aslan stared.
George continued, "You scratch your head three times when annoyed. Rotate your wrist when bored. And you pretend not to listen when you're very much listening."
"…I hate how accurate that is."
"Oh, and you love tomato stew but hate when people dip bread into yours."
"…Okay, now I'm scared."
George leaned in. "There's more."
"Nope." Aslan flopped onto the bed and pulled the blanket over his head. "I've attracted another lunatic. Why do weirdos flock to me?"
George smiled. "Don't worry. I'll use my powers for good."
"Feels like I'm stuck in a fantasy spy novel and the author is laughing at me."
George chuckled. "Sleep well, Red-Haired Enigma."
Aslan groaned. "I miss being alone."
---
Next Morning
Aslan walked into class… and saw George casually chatting with a few groups.
"I'm Aslan's assistant," George said brightly. "We're roommates."
Aslan froze.
In the next instant, he blurred forward, grabbed George, and dragged him out of the classroom in the blink of an eye.
Slamming George—gently but firmly—against the wall, Aslan covered his mouth.
"Don't call yourself my assistant in public," he hissed. "Or I'll kill you."
"Mmmhmm!" George muffled.
Aslan removed his hand.
George raised a brow. "Am I… some kind of Cinderella? My prince~?"
"…What?"
Aslan quickly backed away, flustered. "What is wrong with you?!"
George tilted his head. "Why can't I call myself your assistant in public? I am your assistant."
"You're not," Aslan snapped.
"But you made me your assistant."
"I said that to mess with you! I didn't think you'd latch on like a tick!"
Aslan stormed back into class and sat far away from everyone else.
---
After Class
A group of students was chatting in hushed tones near the hallway. Aslan was passing by when he overheard them.
"I saw the Crown Prince. He's an amazing swordsman."
"Yeah, and he's so handsome too. Like actual royalty."
"And Prince Lucian? The way he handles empire affairs—flawless."
Then a voice shifted the tone.
"But you all know about the third one, right? Total trash."
"Yeah, they say he's physically weak. Can't even hold a sword properly."
"And no magical talent either. Complete failure."
Aslan's smirk deepened.
Perfect, he thought. "Like a perfect villain. Let them admire the golden brothers. Let them hate me instead."
It was exactly what he wanted—what he expected.
Until someone added, almost casually, "I heard he's… really ugly too."
Aslan was walking by proudly—until that last line.
He stopped mid-step.
Like a statue.
The pride slipped. His mind went blank for a beat.
What?
Ugly?
That wasn't part of the script.
---