Tommy looked down at his drink—that expensive whiskey he'd been celebrating with—and something shifted in his expression. The drunk haze cleared for just a moment, replaced by something sharper.

Something that looked almost like clarity wrapped in liquid courage.

Then he looked up at Jack Morrison.

And laughed.

Not nervous laughter. Not the kind that came from being cornered or afraid. Full, genuine, alcohol-fueled amusement that carried across the club like a fucking air raid siren.

Jack Morrison stood there with his usual entourage—seven boys of them total, all holding pool cues mid-game like they'd been frozen in time. The football team's elite. The guys who thought Lincoln Club was their personal territory because their daddies had money and their families had influence.

Our arch-nemesis and his pack of followers who existed solely to make him feel important, to laugh at his mediocre jokes, to provide backup when his mouth wrote checks his ass couldn't cash.

Tommy—emboldened by whiskey, by newfound wealth, by confidence that I could handle whatever came next—took a step closer to Jack's crew.

The entire club's attention laser-focused on us. Every conscious mind in Lincoln Club locked onto this confrontation like it was pay-per-view they'd accidentally gotten for free.

Tommy laughed again—louder this time, that particular drunk laugh that was equal parts genuine amusement and weaponized confidence.

"Well, well, WELL! If it isn't Lincoln High's resident bully himself!" He gestured expansively at Jack's crew. "And look—he brought his entire collection of lackeys! You guys still think the world revolves around football? Still waiting for your NFL contracts that are never fucking coming?"

He slapped his own knee like it was the funniest observation ever made.

The reaction was immediate—Jack's crew tensing up, faces contorting with offense. One of them, this blonde refrigerator-shaped linebacker, took an aggressive step forward with fists already clenching.

"You little—"

Jack's arm shot out, stopping him cold. "Wait."

The linebacker froze, confusion flickering across his face, but he obeyed. Because that's what Jack's crew did—they obeyed their quarterback like he was calling plays on the field.

Jack stared at Tommy with this expression mixing curiosity and contempt, like he was trying to figure out what the fuck had changed, why Tommy Chen wasn't cowering like he used to.

Tommy took another casual drink—swirled the whiskey in his glass like he was at some fancy wine tasting instead of facing down seven guys who probably wanted to rearrange his face. The ice clinked against crystal, and somehow that small sound carried weight.

"You know what, Jack?" Tommy's voice carried across the club, drunk but surprisingly steady. "I need to correct something you said. Because accuracy matters, right? We learned that in school—oh wait, you were too busy throwing people in trash cans to actually attend class."

Snickers from the crowd. Small, but there.

"This?" Tommy gestured to the bar, to the scattered bills, to the celebration that had paused for this confrontation. "This is MY money. Not Peter's. Not charity. Not borrowed. MINE."

He let that word hang in the air, let it settle into every listening ear.

"Money I actually WORKED for. Earned. Through my own effort and talent." Tommy leaned forward slightly, voice dropping but somehow carrying even further. "I know that's a completely alien concept to you, Jack. The idea of working for something instead of waiting for daddy's monthly allowance. Must be confusing as fuck, right?"

Jack stepped forward, casual but deliberate, pool cue swinging loosely in his hand like a weapon he wasn't quite threatening with yet. "What exactly are you trying to say, Tommy?"

"Oh!" Tommy spun toward me with exaggerated surprise, nearly spilling his drink. "PETER! I don't think Jack understands plain English! Should I use smaller words? Maybe draw pictures?"

I didn't respond. Just watched Tommy work, because interrupting this performance would be criminal.

Tommy turned back to Jack, and actually reached out—tapped Jack's shoulder with that drunk-person familiarity that violated every social boundary and personal space rule ever written.

"Let me break it down for you, Jackie-boy." Tommy's voice took on this mock-patient tone, like explaining complex concepts to a child. "See, when I say 'my money,' I mean money that I earned. Through work. Through actual effort. Not—" He made exaggerated air quotes. "—'trust fund money.' Not 'waiting-for-daddy-to-give-me-some' money. Not 'maybe-if-I'm-a-good-boy-daddy-will-increase-my-allowance' money."

The crowd was leaning in now, sensing blood in the water.

"I'm talking about MILLIONS, Jack. Actual millions of dollars. With an M. Not thousands. Not your little ten-thousand-dollar monthly allowance that you think makes you rich. MILLIONS. More money than your daddy will give your useless ass in the next five years combined."

WHOA.

The club erupted—gasps, laughs, "oh SHIT" echoing from multiple directions.

Because Tommy had just called Jack Morrison—trust fund golden boy, quarterback whose family was worthy BILLIONS —broke by comparison. Had just implied Jack was playing with pocket change while Tommy swam in real wealth.

Jack's face went through multiple expressions rapid-fire—shock, disbelief, anger—before settling on this forced calm that was somehow more dangerous than rage. His jaw clenched so hard I could see muscles jumping.

"You're fucking stupid, Tommy. Spending recklessly just because you stumbled into a few millions? That's how people go broke fast. That's how you end up back in your mom's Civic in six months."

Tommy's laugh was absolutely fearless. "A few millions? A FEW?" He turned to the crowd like they were his audience. "Did you hear that? He called millions—PLURAL, multiple millions—'a few' like it's nothing. Like he knows what having millions feels like."

He swiveled back to Jack, leaning in. "But you don't, do you Jackie-boy? You have access to daddy's millions. You have an allowance from daddy's money. But YOUR money? The money YOU earned? That bank account has what—maybe fifty thousand if you're lucky? Money daddy gave you for your birthday?"

Snickers rippled through the crowd. People were actively laughing at Jack Morrison's expense now, which probably hadn't happened since... ever.

Jack's hands tightened on the pool cue, knuckles going white.

But Tommy wasn't fucking done.

His eyes landed on the girl wrapped around Jack's arm—pretty, definitely college-aged, Mercy Medical written all over her designer-casual outfit. The kind of girl Jack bought with drinks and attention and promises of importance by association.

Tommy's grin widened into something absolutely savage. "Oh! OH!" He pointed with his whiskey glass. "Wait, wait, wait. Is that—no, it can't be. That's not Sofia, is it?"

The club went dead fucking silent.

Because everyone from our school knew that name. Knew exactly what it meant. Knew the story of Sofia Delgado dumping Jack Morrison publicly for me—Peter Carter, the former trash can victim turned whatever-the-fuck-I-was-now.

Jack's entire crew knew what Tommy was implying. Knew the wound he'd just pressed on. Knew this was the one thing that actually hurt Jack's ego beyond repair.

Jack's face contorted with rage—just for a second, that mask slipping—before he forced it back under control.

Slapped on that fake confidence rich boys learned young.

He wrapped his arm tighter around the college girl—possessive gesture trying to look casual. "Well, Tommy, since you brought her up—after I finished FUCKING Sofia—" He made sure that word carried, made sure everyone heard the crude emphasis. "—after I got bored with that used pussy, I threw her to the public garbage can where she belongs."

He pointed directly at me.

"Threw her to that TRASH right there. Because that's all she was worth."

Every eye in Lincoln Club turned to me.

I stayed seated. Wine glass in hand. Didn't move. Didn't react externally.

But inside? Inside, anger flared white-hot, coiled tighter, ready to strike. Every instinct screamed to stand up, cross that distance, and introduce Jack to a world of pain he couldn't comprehend.

He'd just called Sofia—MY Sofia, brilliant and kind and fucking MINE—garbage. Called her trash in front of two hundred people. Reduced her to nothing just to salvage his pathetic ego.

The wine glass in my hand cracked slightly. Just a hairline fracture from grip strength I barely controlled.

But I stayed seated.

For now.

Because Tommy was still talking, and interrupting his momentum would be wasteful.

Tommy's face had gone from drunk amusement to something colder. More focused. That particular anger that came from defending a friend's woman, from recognizing a line that shouldn't have been crossed.

"Fucked her?" Tommy's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "With WHAT dick, Jack?"

Oh shit. Tommy, don't—

"Because we ALL know—the ENTIRE school knows—your tiny little pencil dick is the size of a PINKY FINGER. Quarter of a pinky finger if we're being generous. That's why all your girls left your ass! Because you couldn't satisfy them with that pathetic excuse for a cock that couldn't even enter them!"

The club didn't just laugh.

It ERUPTED.

Howling laughter from two hundred people simultaneously. Real, genuine, uncontrollable laughter that echoed off walls and drowned out the music.

People bent over, holding their stomachs. Girls covered their mouths but their eyes showed pure amusement. Even Jack's crew couldn't maintain composure—I saw grins they tried desperately to hide, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Even the girl on Jack's arm was laughing—she tried to hide it behind her hand, but her whole body shook with it.

**

Jack's fist came up—no warning, no thought, just pure animal reaction—swinging toward Tommy's face with every ounce of wounded pride and anger behind it.

Time slowed.

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