How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 74: How to Go Home as a Semi-Hero (1)

Chapter 74: How to Go Home as a Semi-Hero (1)

The cell was way too small for that much ego and poor judgment. One stone wall, a window that looked more like a scar on the bricks, and a wooden bench that creaked louder than most of my bad decisions. The air smelled like mold, old sweat, and bread that should’ve been buried with honors. Outside, the sound of the crowd gathered like a storm waiting for lightning.

"Let them out!" some were shouting.

"This is ridiculous! They saved the girl!"

"They’re not to blame! Investigation! Journalism! Justice!"

The words reached us muffled, but full of raw, honest outrage.

I sat against the wall, legs stretched out, drumming my fingers on my knee. Thalia, on the other side of the cell, looked small. Arms crossed on her lap, face half-hidden under messy hair, eyes fixed on nothing.

Silence.

The kind of silence you get when both people know a conversation needs to happen... but no one wants to start it.

"They’re still yelling out there," I muttered, just to break the ice. "Maybe they’ll give me an official hero title. Or a shirt with my face on it saying ’Saved This Week’s Dramatic Girl’."

She looked up, tired.

"Dante..."

"I know, I know. ’I’m sorry.’ Go ahead. Recite the ritual."

"I’m sorry," she said anyway, her voice shaky.

"There it is. Ceremony complete. Should I clap or wave a towel?"

She closed her eyes for a second, breathing deeply.

"I know I messed up. It’s not just... for talking too much. It’s for not trusting. For always thinking I have to fix everything by myself."

"That’s called ego. And ego doesn’t mix with investigation. Ego walks into a cursed basement with a candle in one hand thinking it’ll solve everything with guts. Then it dies. Without dignity."

She laughed—or tried to.

"I just... wanted to be good at this."

"You are. You’re just terrible at admitting limits."

Thalia bit her lip. That fragile, guilty posture she insisted on keeping was starting to wear on me. But before I could reply, the system lit up. Of course it did.

[RELATIONAL SYSTEM – PRIVATE ALERT]

[Subject: Thalia Veil]

→ Emotional State: Conflict / Vulnerability

→ Internal Condition: [Bond Formation – Active]

→ Affection Level: 71% (Threshold reached)

→ Subconscious Tag Applied: "Safe Haven"

→ Risk: Emotional Attachment Forming

Great. She was falling for me. Because of course. Saving someone from a death ritual in the middle of the night is basically emotional aphrodisiac. A chainsaw of affection. A Molotov cocktail of "he gets me" and "he saved me" served in a shot glass of adrenaline. The kind of thing that melts the brain of anyone with more trauma than therapy hours.

→ System Suggestion: Remain neutral or redirect conversation.

→ Note: Passive Traits suggest future conflict if emotional bond solidifies.

Of course this was happening. Every girl with abandonment issues or a missing father—emotional or literal—has a special talent for projecting their ghosts onto any idiot who happens to reach out at the right time. I’ve seen this movie before.

Plenty of times. Sometimes I was even the lead actor. And in every version, the script was the same: first comes gratitude, then the pedestal. And finally, the blame for not living up to the perfect savior they created in their head.

Girls with daddy issues are like magical landmines: beautiful from a distance, dazzling when touched... and deadly if you step wrong.

The thing is, it’s not like I’m afraid of getting hurt. I get hurt all the time. I practically enjoy it. The difference is that these emotional wounds don’t heal with a potion or a good night’s sleep. They stick. To your clothes. To your smell. To the name she mutters every time she picks a fight with the mirror.

And the worst part? The look.

That look of "you get it." That look of "you really see me." That look of "you’re not going to leave, right?"

That’s when it all falls apart. Because I know the answer to all of it. I’m dumb enough to save someone even when I shouldn’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to become someone’s emotional stand-in for a missing father.

Doesn’t matter if she’s beautiful, smart, talented, or even fun when she’s not having an emotional meltdown. The package comes with long-term emotional debt I’m not looking to pay—with interest and sentimental penalties included.

I watched Thalia in silence for a moment.

She was quiet, trying to look strong. But her body betrayed her. The way she held her own arms, like trying to keep herself from falling apart. The way her gaze dodged mine whenever I said something sarcastic—not with anger, but like she was trying to find kindness hidden between the barbs. That kind of behavior that screams childhoods where no one said "I care" without demanding something back.

I sighed.

Whatever little urge I had to flirt was already evaporating like spoiled potion steam.

Girls like Thalia are easy. Way too easy. All you have to do is play the protective father figure. Say the right words, keep your voice low and steady, pull her in at the dramatic moment. She’d fall. Hard.

But then what? Then I’d be the castle she tries to live in. And me? I can barely live under the same roof as my regrets.

So better not even start.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned—in my bones, in my fury, and in the silence of people who never forgave me—it’s that some relationships aren’t romances waiting to happen.

They’re just relapses with lipstick.

I pretended not to see the system panel floating at the edge of my vision and turned, resting my elbows on my knees.

"You know," I began, keeping the tone light, "everything you’re feeling right now... guilt, admiration, that wild urge to cling to the first authority figure who doesn’t treat you like garbage... all of that is just chemistry. Common. It’ll pass."

She looked at me, surprised by how cold that sounded. I just shrugged.

"This is a cell. Not a confessional. And it’s not the first time someone got it twisted and thought they were falling for me just because I showed up at the right time."

"I’m not—"

"No need to deny it. I’m irresistible. But what you’re feeling right now will disappear the second you take a hot bath and eat something that didn’t come out of a smuggled backpack."

Thalia said nothing. Brow furrowed. That kind of silence that usually comes before something emotional. But this time... she just took a breath and kept looking at me. Long. Direct. Like she was trying to figure out the person behind the mask.

I turned away. Best not to open that door.

No matter how right the system was, no matter how much my ego loved the idea of being the center of some clever girl’s devotion, I knew her type. Need disguised as purpose. A dangerous mix that tends to explode in the wrong arms.

And I wasn’t interested in mopping up emotional blood afterward.

"You’re impossible," she muttered.

"And you’re predictable," I replied, leaning my head against the wall. "But hey, progress—no yelling, no dramatic crying. We’re evolving."

Outside, the crowd was growing louder. Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Heavier ones. More rhythmic. Someone important.

The door creaked.

A different guard appeared. Darker uniform. Reinforced gear. Clean gloves. A face like a war ledger.

"You two." His voice cut the air like a court blade. "Time for your conversation."

Thalia swallowed hard.

I smiled, rising slowly.

"Hope there’s coffee. After a night like this... we earned it."

The cell door opened with a dry creak. No charm, no drama. Just wood, iron, and swallowed irritation.

On the other side, the lead guard.

Rigid posture. Eyes that didn’t blink out of habit, not intimidation. Uniform spotless, flawless. The kind of man who probably used regulations as a pillow.

He stepped in with deliberate steps, no rush, no hesitation. And when he spoke, it was like reading out a prewritten sentence—knowing no one would like it, and not giving a damn.

"You two are being released."

No dramatic pause. No sigh of mercy. I just stood there, waiting for the catch, and it came:

"The decision was made following intervention from the regional commander—"

"And the recent public outcry?" I added with a playful tone.

The guard stared at me like I was a stain on his perfect record. That’s when I knew everything I needed.

The classic "intervention." The pressure from the people. The noise outside—which, by the way, still hadn’t stopped. Angry voices echoing like a badly rehearsed choir of polite rebellion.

The guard continued:

"You’ll be leaving Antoril immediately. Escorted back to Ashveil."

Straight to the point. No "be thankful for mercy." No "you’re lucky to be alive." Just the cold logistics of someone who wants the mess gone.

"Escort is being arranged. Two mounts. A tracker. And direct orders not to stop until you’ve crossed city borders."

Ah, how romantic. A forced countryside getaway—with armed babysitters.

I stayed silent. Just tilted my head in that ambiguous gesture—could’ve been thanks, could’ve been sarcasm. Maybe both.

"Don’t mistake this release for absolution," he added, firm. "The damage caused will be recorded. And if anything like this happens in Ashveil, there won’t be a second chance."

Practical. Precise. Deadly serious.

The kind of man who probably sleeps with a penal code under his pillow. No cover. Just the dry text.

He turned to leave. The sound of his boots echoed on worn stone for an eternal second before stopping.

"You have ten minutes."

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut. No lock. No ceremony.

I looked at Thalia. She was still seated on the bench, staring into nothing like she was still processing the cost of what had just happened. Her breathing was calmer now. But her eyes said something else.

I stretched, arms reaching up like it was just another normal day.

"Released by popular demand," I thought. "Nothing like a good collective scream to remind a city that maybe locking up heroes isn’t the best PR move."

But of course... heroes.

Heroes don’t cause underground explosions and launch carts into the air.

At least not with style.