Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 81: You’re The Problem

I sit at the impossibly long table, a feast of artfully arranged delicacies spread out before under the soft, chandelier light.

Yet, I feel nothing but a hollow unhappiness. My eyes are down, fixed on my plate, because I can feel the weight of his stare from the other end of the table.

It’s a blue, penetrating pressure that makes the distance between us feel like a single, tense breath.

I risk a glance. Moon is just sitting there, not eating, just... watching. His own plate untouched.

I look away quickly.

The silence is a thick, expensive fabric smothering the room.

Finally, he breaks it.

"Why aren’t you eating?"

I look at him, pick up my fork with deliberate slowness. "I’m eating," I say, the lie transparent as glass. Like a child caught in a fib.

He takes a slow sip of wine, his eyes never leaving . I force myself to take a small, tasteless bite, the action clearly unpleasant.

"Why aren’t you eating?" I shoot back, the question edged with my own frustration.

He sets his glass down with a soft clink. "I’m not hungry."

The fork slips from my fingers, clattering loudly against the fine china.

But... didn’t he just say he was starving? He dragged in here, rushed , said he was starving. I put up with his whims, thinking he actually needed to eat. And now he’s not hungry?

Enough.

I can’t take this circular, maddening ga anymore.

I look straight into his unnerving blue eyes, my voice dropping to a cold, sharp blade.

"I thought you were only rude. But you’re a liar, too."

He doesn’t react with anger. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his lips. He lifts his hand, tracing the rim of his wine glass with a single, deliberate finger. A heavy gold ring on his index finger catches the light, glinting coldly.

He stares at the glass, not at .

"You’re the one who taught this, Zyren."

I go silent, my breath catching. God. I really want to know... what did the original Zyren do to him?

What hurt is buried under all this polished ice?

What wound is he carrying that makes him like this?

I lean back in the absurdly plush chair, taking a deep, steadying breath.

Dealing with him is a special kind of hell.

Neon, just relax. Think calmly.

He clearly doesn’t like Zyren. Yet he’s the one who dragged him here.

He doesn’t love him. That’s obvious.

But he doesn’t seem to truly hate him either. If he did, with all his S-Class Alpha power, he could have hurt a dozen tis over by now.

But he hasn’t. Not once.

What does he actually want? The confusion is a tangled knot in my chest.

Before I can voice the chaotic question, my phone rings. The sound is a violent intrusion in the heavy silence. I flinch.

I pull it from my pocket. The screen glows: Angel.

My thumb is just about to swipe when a hand snatches the phone from my grasp.

I look up, shocked. "Hey—! What the hell are you doing?!"

My shout is pure, unfiltered anger.

Moon doesn’t even look at . He glances at the screen, sees the na, and his expression hardens almost imperceptibly. With a swift, decisive motion, he powers the phone off and slips it into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket.

"I hate disturbances while eating," he states, as if comnting on the weather.

He walks back to his seat and sinks into it like a king who has just issued a decree, utterly unruffled.

I stare at him, disbelief warring with a rage that’s been simring all day.

I’m fed up. My face is hot with anger.

"What is your problem?" I snap, the words biting. "Just tell !"

He calmly takes another sip of wine. "You’re the problem."

I freeze. Stare at him, unblinking. I’m the problem?

"If I’m the problem," I seethe, my voice trembling with frustration, "then why the hell did you drag here with you?!"

He’s still infuriatingly calm. "Because you’re the reason I’m bored. And stuck in this country."

God, this man is crawling under my skin. I’m done.

Without thinking, I stand up so fast my chair scrapes loudly. "You’re bored because of ? Fine." My voice is tight with finality.

"Then I’ll take responsibility."

He just stares at , that sa infuriating calm in his blue eyes.

I don’t hesitate. I stride the length of the long table, my steps sharp on the polished floor. I reach his end, grab his hand, and yank him to his feet.

He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t utter a sound. He just lets manhandle him up, a strange, passive compliance that’s more unsettling than any fight.

My face is a storm of frustration. I turn and start walking, dragging him behind by the wrist.

And he follows. Silently. Without protest. Letting lead the way, as if this entire bewildering, infuriating charade is exactly what he wanted all along.

The car stops in front of a shop that’s the polar opposite of the sterile luxury we just left.

It’s a cozy, warmly lit place with a sign that swings gently in the evening breeze:

Fun & Love.

My face is still set in a mask of cold fury. I unbuckle my seatbelt with a sharp click and step out into the crisp air. Moon follows, still silent, a shadow at my heels.

I grab his hand again, my grip tight, more a demand than an invitation.

"Let’s go inside."

He looks up at the whimsical sign, his expression unreadable for a mont. Then his gaze shifts back to . "So," he says, his voice a low, amused murmur.

"This is how you want to ’take responsibility’?"

I stare at him, dead serious.

"Do you want to go or not?"

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t argue. He just moves, falling into step beside as I pull him toward the entrance.

But I feel his eyes on . Not on the shop, not on the street, not on anything else.

His gaze is fixed on the side of my face, heavy and unwavering, as if I’m the only thing that exists in his world right now.