Evil MC's NTR Harem

In the end, a man named Hugh volunteered to take the first shift.

The moment his foot stepped into the outlined circle in front of the television, a soft pulse of light spread outward beneath him—cool blue lines tracing the edges of the circle.

A chime echoed through the house, followed by a mechanical voice:

"Weekly Task Initiated."

On the massive screen behind Hugh, a countdown timer appeared in bold digital numbers:

167:59:59… 167:59:58…

The challenge had officially begun.

The rest of the housemates let out a collective breath, some clapping, others cheering lightly in encouragement.

But the mood remained laced with tension. This was just the beginning. A single mistake could cost them the entire week's comfort.

Leaving Hugh to concentrate, the group filtered back into the dining area.

Some returned to begin their meals, while others began serving themselves portions from what remained.

But it didn't take long for the atmosphere to sour once again.

Ross was still at the table.

Still eating.

Still helping himself to whatever he pleased.

And now, it was clear—he'd taken far more than anyone else.

His plate was practically overflowing. Not only that, he had made no effort to serve anyone else, much less ask if it was okay.

The others exchanged glances. Gritted teeth. Angry whispers.

Their patience had been wearing thin for a while, but now? Now it was fraying.

"Are you serious right now?" one of the contestants muttered under his breath.

"Just look at him. He's taking half the table…"

"He's a fucking pig, that's what he is."

Finally, someone snapped.

A young woman, previously quiet, stood up. Her face wasn't especially striking—plain, ordinary, unadorned by makeup or glamour—but right now, her eyes were fiery. She had reached her breaking point.

"Have you got no shame?" she asked, voice rising as she stepped forward, arms folded tightly across her chest.

Ross didn't respond at first. He simply continued chewing, eyes calm and indifferent behind his mask.

"You should be dividing the food properly like the rest of us," she went on. "This isn't your personal buffet. It's supposed to feed everyone."

The others nodded. Some murmured in agreement, emboldened by her words.

"You didn't cook, you didn't clean, you didn't even ask if anyone else had eaten. You're just sitting there, stuffing your face while the rest of us try to survive this week without starving. What's wrong with you?"

Ross slowly lowered his spoon.

The dining room grew still.

Then, in a voice low and cutting, he said, "Shut up."

It wasn't loud.

But it carried.

Dead silence followed.

"I didn't see you cook either," Ross said coolly, lifting his gaze just enough to meet hers. "Didn't see you help prep anything. Didn't see you wash a plate or light a stove."

He leaned back, casually scooping another mouthful of food as he spoke.

"You stood around watching like the rest of the sheep—waiting for someone else to step up. You didn't volunteer for the task. You didn't lift a finger. So don't pretend you're better than me just because you speak louder."

Ross chuckled softly, almost amused.

"In fact, from where I'm sitting, you and I are exactly the same: freeloaders. Only difference is, I don't lie to myself about it."

The woman's face went red. Whether from humiliation, rage, or both—no one could tell.

She opened her mouth to argue, but no words came.

Ross had shut her down so effectively, so coldly, that even the fire in her eyes seemed to flicker out for a moment.

Around the table, everyone else watched in uncomfortable silence.

Even Corey, usually the first to talk back, said nothing this time. There was something unnerving about Ross's composure.

He didn't shout. He didn't threaten. He just... spoke. Calm. Unshaken. And yet, it cut deeper than any insult.

He turned back to his meal, resuming his feast as if nothing had happened.

The tension didn't fade. If anything, it deepened.

The other contestants began eating quietly, sneaking glances at Ross every so often, unsure whether to confront him or avoid him entirely.

No one could figure him out. No one knew what he wanted.

He was a complete anomaly.

Silent. Watchful. Dangerous.

And already—barely a few hours in—he was disrupting the balance of the entire house.

"He's an arrogant son of a bitch."

"If he weren't twice my size, I swear—I'd have punched him right in the face and shoved that mask down his damn throat."

The boys in the house sat huddled in a corner of the lounge, their voices low but sharp with resentment.

Frustration radiated from them in waves. It wasn't just the men.

The girls were no different. In every little clique that formed within the house, one name kept coming up again and again—Big D.

Or, as they now mockingly called him: Big Dumb.

Nobody wanted to talk to him. No one dared approach him.

He was clearly not someone interested in making friends, and worse, he didn't even pretend to be decent.

From the very first moment he stepped through the door, Ross had made one thing clear: he didn't care.

He didn't care about the game.

He didn't care about the group.

He didn't care about anyone.

And that terrified them.

When dinner time came, the contestants moved differently. This time, they were careful.

Strategic. They gathered quickly, splitting into small groups, organizing the food, plating it evenly—and making absolutely sure that none of it ended up in Ross's hands.

Not a single grain of rice.

Not a sliver of beef.

They kept watch like hawks as they ate, passing food quickly, quietly, like thieves in the night.

Forks clicked softly against plates, eyes constantly flicking over shoulders, checking to see if Ross would move, if he'd try to stand, if he'd make a scene.

But he didn't.

He just sat there, silent, unmoving, lounging on the massive sofa chair he had claimed for himself earlier that day—like a lion watching from the tall grass.

They all held their breath as they neared the end of the meal, only relaxing when the last bite was swallowed and the last pot scraped clean.

Still, not a word of celebration was spoken. Just the unspoken relief that, somehow, they'd pulled it off.

Then came the taunting.