QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 252: Compare

Chapter 252

Nima

I can’t believe it.

Past lives?

I an, I’d had a feeling for weeks, but having it spoken out loud is an entirely different thing. It feels heavier now, real enough to weigh down my chest.

I turn away from her and keep moving, lamp in hand. The soft glow trembles against the stone walls as I wander further into the secret room. My eyes catch a corner of canvas peeking out from behind an old trunk—edges of a fra hidden like contraband.

I crouch, angling the lamp. There’s more back there. More than she showed .

I reach for it—

A shadow falls over .

When I look up, she’s there. Daphne. A living wall of warmth and muscle, ears flicking nervously atop her head, tail lashing in a way that’s anything but calm.

"There’s nothing to see here, my little bunny," she says, voice low but tight, as she steps in front of .

I bend slightly to the side, trying to peer around her. In the flickering light I can clearly make out the corner of another portrait. There’s definitely sothing there.

Her hand cos up, gentle but firm, to guide away. "Let’s go," she says softly, almost coaxing.

I don’t move.

She frowns a little, ears twitching harder. "It’s nothing," she says again, more quickly this ti.

I still don’t speak. I just look at her.

Her tail swishes sharply behind her, betraying her nerves. "Seriously, it’s nothing," she repeats, her voice lighter now, like she’s trying to make it sound casual.

I keep staring, lamp raised between us.

She exhales, eyes sliding away. "It’s just a bunch of damaged, old portraits," she murmurs, her claws flexing slightly at her sides.

I don’t believe her. And I don’t say so. I just stand there, watching her, the silence stretching between us until it’s almost a tangible thing.

I just keep looking.

It becos a silent battle. She holds my gaze for a heartbeat, then another... and then her shoulders slump. She covers her face with both hands and groans into her palms.

"Don’t say anything," she mutters through her fingers.

"I wasn’t going to," I answer quietly.

She peeks at through her fingers, then lets out another groan before dragging her palms down her face in defeat. She gives a look—equal parts exasperated and resigned—before mumbling sothing about "weaponizing my cute looks."

Her tail lashes once, betraying her irritation, but she steps aside anyway, ears twitching nervously.

I take the chance, lifting the lamp higher and walking forward. My shadow stretches across the hidden canvases stacked against the wall.

What has her so anxious?

My hand reaches out—hesitant but curious—and the mont my fingers brush the edge of a fra, my grip falters. The lamp slips from my other hand. My heart lurches, but before it hits the floor, claws flash and Daphne snatches it out of the air with predatory ease.

I whip my head around to stare at her. She doesn’t even look smug. Just... tense.

"Are these...?" I ask, voice barely more than a whisper.

She groans again, low and defeated, rubbing at the back of her neck.

"Yes." She says begrudgingly.

"I see." I murmur. My stomach twists as I bend forward, my hands trembling slightly as I pull one canvas free.

Extrely detailed. Nude.

My breath stutters as I stare at the portrait of so version of —sa soft ears, sa face shape, but more radiant, more ethereal.

Her hair is spun gold instead of my dull brown hair, her eyes an impossible shade of blue, like frozen rivers under sunlight, and my eyes look like an unimpressive dull brown.

She’s caught mid-step, erging from a pool of water, droplets sliding down her bare skin.

It isn’t just a painting. It’s worship. Every brushstroke reverent, obsessive. The texture of her damp hair clinging to her collarbone, the faint sheen of goosebumps painted with such precision it looks alive.

Her nipples are peaked, touched with the faintest blush of color, every line of her body immortalized in a way that’s both lewd and heartbreakingly beautiful.

My hands clutch the fra tighter, but I can’t look away.

Heat floods my face, my ears twitch violently, and finally I turn, wide-eyed, toward Daphne.

"Don’t." She says.

"Don’t say anything." She adds on, avoiding my gaze. Her ears twitch and her tail lashes once, betraying the calm she tries to hold.

"It’s actually beautiful." I say softly. My voice wavers with awe more than accusation.

Her head tilts just slightly, like she wasn’t expecting that.

"It’s like you’ve immortalized her." I say, because she has.

Daphne doesn’t respond. Her lips press together, her eyes fixed on so faraway corner of the room, as though if she avoids my gaze long enough, she can will into silence.

"Well..." she finally mutters, voice rough. Still avoiding .

I place the first portrait carefully against the wall, my fingertips trembling as I reach for another.

Whoa.

My breath hitches in my throat. This one—this version of —is well endowed in the chest area.

Extrely well endowed.

The curves are fuller, lush, captured in detail that feels almost indecent. And yet... it doesn’t co off vulgar. It’s beautiful. The light, the texture, the reverence in the paint itself transforms it into sothing sacred.

Her dark hair floats like a halo in a tub of crystalline water. She leans languidly against the curved side, eyes closed, lips parted in quiet bliss, utterly at peace.

My hands shake as I set it down, my heart pounding in my ears.

Another canvas waits, and I force myself to lift it.

Apparently the first version of . Her? This is so confusing.

But the difference is imdiate. This one breathes. Her body lies against soft white sheets, glowing like she’s resting on clouds.

Her expression holds amusent, as though an inside joke is frozen in her eyes, as though she’s sharing it with whoever looks long enough.

My chest tightens, heat searing up my throat.

I feel... jealous.

Which is ridiculous, completely illogical. Because technically, she’s . Or a part of . Or so version of .

But that doesn’t stop the sting.

Because unlike the rest of us who ca after her, she didn’t need lifetis. She didn’t need mories or hints or déjà vu. She got Daphne to fall in love with her—her alone. All on her own.

The ache grows sharp, heavy in my ribs as I set the portrait back down.

And then I reach for the last one.

The mont my eyes land on it, my fingers slip. The canvas clatters against the floor. My heart slams into my throat.

Because it’s... ?

They say extrely talented artists can put their emotions into paintings.

I don’t know who this is supposed to be, but she’s not .

Not the way I see , anyway.

I turn, my throat tight, to look at Daphne.

"I’m sorry," she says quickly, ears twitching, her voice low and rushed. "If you’re uncomfortable with it, I’ll burn it."

"No, no... I’m not." My voice cracks as I turn back toward the canvas.

The longer I stare, the more details bloom in my chest like bruises. I recognize the room—it’s her room. My sketchbook is tossed carelessly on the floor, the giant tree frad perfectly in the window behind , the familiar rag folded at the corner of the bed.

But the most surprising part isn’t the background.

It’s .

I look like this.

Or at least... I do to her.

I lean closer, my breath catching. Maybe she softened my features? Smoothed out the roundness of my cheeks, sharpened into soone better? But no—the brushstrokes don’t lie. There’s no change.

This Nima, this painted version, is sitting barefoot on the floor, hand resting lightly on the bed. Her head tilted just so, her mouth caught mid-laugh, her eyes lit with sothing so raw it makes my chest ache.

Her ears are uneven—one flopped down, one twitching up—and sohow, it only makes her more alive.

Her hair, which I’ve always thought of as ugly brown, is kissed with light. Warm and soft, carrying dinsion I never saw in the mirror.

Her eyes... gods, her eyes look expressive, like they’re looking at soone who matters more than the world.

Is this what she sees?

Not plain. Not forgettable. Not unimpressive.

The nudity doesn’t even matter. I barely notice it compared to the joy painted across my face.

My throat closes. Heat pricks behind my eyes, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop the tears.

Because for as long as I can rember, I’ve carried this insecurity like a second skin. Every whispered comnt in the academy halls, every jealous mutter—why would the duchess waste her ti with soone so average, so unimpressive, when she could have anyone more beautiful?

And now, seeing those impossibly perfect past versions of , won who shine brighter, who look like the kind of people she’s supposed to fall in love with—

How could I compare?

I bite my lip hard enough to sting, but the tears spill anyway.

"Oh my god—I’m so sorry." Daphne’s voice rushes into , startled and panicked. She nearly tears the painting out of my hands, fumbling it against the wall.

"Don’t cry...please don’t cry." Her claws, always so dangerous, cup my face with trembling gentleness, the pads of her thumbs brushing away tears I can’t stop.

"It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have painted you like that. I shouldn’t—"

But her voice drowns in my sobs as I finally break, finally bawling into her hands.

I should explain.

I should tell her I’m not crying because she painted naked.

It’s not that.

It’s because, for the first ti, I’m seeing myself through her eyes—

And in her eyes, I’m not the unimpressive, forgettable little bunny I thought I was.

In her eyes, I’m... beautiful.

But I can’t explain.

Not through these sobs that shake my chest, not through the way my throat refuses to work.

So I just cry harder.