[DURATION:] Fifteen Days

Phei stared at the notification.

Then stared some more.

One thousand EXP.

That was... that was insane. His total accumulated EXP since the system bound to him was barely over six hundred. One mission—one fuck—would nearly triple his entire progress.

Twelve physical stats.

Split evenly, that was four points to Strength, Endurance, and Agility each. Or dumped into one category for a massive boost. Either way, it would push him significantly closer to the "average healthy male" threshold he was still embarrassingly below.

Ten charm points.

The presence that didn't just get glances but held them.

And a new technique. Fiery Cock Technique. He didn't know what that meant, but given the system's track record, it was probably exactly as overpowered as it sounded.

All of this. Just for fucking Maddie Whitmore.

Right now, he could call her back. She was probably still in the hallway, that athletic body wound tight with frustration and arousal, waiting for him to change his mind. One word and she'd come running.

One crook of his finger and she'd be bent over this lab table, skirt around her waist, begging him to give her exactly what the mission demanded.

He could finish this in twenty minutes and walk out with rewards that would accelerate his growth by weeks.

His Dragon twitched. Do it. Take her. Claim her. She's RIGHT THERE.

Phei closed the notification.

And smiled.

No.

This wasn't just about the rewards. This was about something bigger. Something more important than stats and techniques and system achievements.

This was about image.

He'd spent the last week building something. A reputation. A presence. The whispered rumors in hallways, the nervous glances from boys who used to shove him into lockers, the hungry stares from girls who used to look right through him.

All of it carefully cultivated, deliberately constructed, brick by fucking brick.

The Dragon among lizards.

The man who couldn't be bought.

The one who took what he wanted, when he wanted, on his terms and no one else's.

If he bent to Maddie's demands right now—if he chased her into the hallway and gave her exactly what she asked for, just because she asked for it—what would that make him?

Not a dragon.

A dog.

A well-trained pet that came running when the pretty girl snapped her fingers. A gigolo dancing to whatever tune the Academy Belles decided to play. Or worse... a man-slut so desperate for pussy that he'd abandon his own plans the moment someone waved it in his face.

The rewards were insane, yes. But the long-term cost would be catastrophic.

Right now, in that group chat he wasn't supposed to know about but hye did, he was a topic of fascination. Mystery. Desire. The girls whispered about him because they couldn't figure him out, couldn't predict him, couldn't control him.

That mystique is worth more than a thousand EXP.

That image was worth more than twelve stats.

And if he shattered it now—if I proved that all it takes to have me was a pretty face and an aggressive kiss—he'd go from the dragon they fantasized about to the easy lay they passed around. From the top male in their collective imagination to something worse than a janitor.

They should be lucky he was even entertaining their games and antics.

System timeline be damned.

Phei had a plan. He'd had one before Maddie dragged him into this classroom, and he still had one now. The mission said fifteen days. Fine. He'd complete it on day five if he felt like it. Or day four. Or whenever it suited his schedule and his strategy.

Not hers.

Not the system's.

MINE!

Right now, the plan was simple: apology letters for Harold's bullshit demands, and then tonight—finally, properly, completely—Sierra.

She was ready. He'd felt it in their sessions, in the increasing desperation of her kisses, in the way she lingered after he made her come, in the texts she sent at 2 AM when she couldn't sleep because her body ached for something his fingers and tongue couldn't give her.

Tonight, in his condo, on his terms, he was going to fuck Sierra Montgomery.

And she was going to come to him. Not the other way around. He'd given her the address, told her when to arrive, made it crystal clear that this was his territory now. She'd show up or their arrangement ended.

No more games.

No more dancing.

Just a dragon claiming what was his.

Phei glanced at his phone as he walked back toward the main building.

Six missed calls. All from Maya.

Then the texts...

Maya (12:47 PM): Where are you??

Maya (12:52 PM): Pheiiii I saved you a seat!!

Maya (1:03 PM): Are you okay? You're not in the cafeteria...

Maya (1:15 PM): I'm getting worried :(

Maya (1:24 PM): Okay I saved you food!! Please come eat something! (attached location)

Maya (1:31 PM): 🥺🥺🥺

He smiled despite himself.

Maya Scarlett. Sweet, clingy, somehow even more attached to him after that hand-holding mission and the kiss on her cheek. Three days of public displays of affection—nothing sexual, nothing scandalous, just him treating her like she mattered—and she'd imprinted on him like a baby duck.

It is almost cute.

Also, useful. This unknown princess-like girl following him around like a lovesick puppy did wonders for his reputation. Every time she grabbed his arm in the hallway or saved him a seat at lunch, other girls noticed.

Other girls wondered what he had that made Maya Scarlett act like that.

Jealousy was a powerful recruiting tool.

Phei: Got caught up. On my way.

Maya: YAY!! 💕💕💕

He pocketed the phone and headed for the cafeteria's back entrance.

The apology letters took twenty minutes.

Phei sat at an empty table near the vending machines, Maya beside him practically vibrating with happiness that he'd shown up, and wrote two letters he didn't mean a single word of.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Ashford,

I wish to express my sincere apologies for the incident at your daughter's birthday celebration. The damage to the ice sculpture was entirely my fault, and I take full responsibility for my carelessness...

Bullshit. Danton had tripped him. Everyone knew it. But Harold wanted groveling, so groveling Harold would get.

...I understand that no apology can undo what was done, but I hope you will accept this letter as a gesture of my genuine remorse...

More bullshit. The Ashfords were worth billions. A twelve-thousand-dollar sculpture was pocket lint to them. They probably hadn't thought about it since the night it happened.

...With deepest respect, Phei Maxton.

He signed it with a flourish he didn't feel, then started on the second letter.

Dear Ms. Harris,

Please accept my sincere apologies for the damage to your dress at the Ashford celebration...

He didn't even know who Ms. Harris was. Some neighbor, probably. Someone whose designer gown had gotten splashed when he'd been shoved into that bounce house. Another victim of Danton's pranks who would blame Phei because that's how Paradise worked.

...I am deeply sorry for any inconvenience or distress I may have caused...

Maya watched him write, nibbling on a carrot stick, occasionally offering comments like "your handwriting is really nice" and "you're so responsible" that he acknowledged with noncommittal hums.

When both letters were done, he folded them carefully, slipped them into the envelopes Harold had provided, and addressed each one.

Mr. and Mrs. Ashford, Ashford Estate.

Ms. Harris, 47 Rosewood Lane.

Harold would review them, stamp them with the Maxton seal, and send them back to Phei for personal delivery. A final humiliation—making the charity case hand-deliver his own apologies to the people he'd supposedly wronged.

Except Phei had no intention of delivering them himself.

He spotted the kid almost immediately. A freshman, scrawny, nervous, clearly new to Ashford's brutal social hierarchy. The kind of easy target Phei used to be.

"Hey."

The kid looked up, startled. "M-me?"

"Yeah, you." Phei held out the envelopes. "Take these to Danton Maxton. Tell him they're the letters for Harold."

"I—what? But I don't—"

Phei's eyes narrowed. Just slightly. Just enough to let the Dominance Aura pulse outward, pressing against the kid's weak will like a thumb on an ant.

The freshman swallowed hard. Something shifted in his posture—shoulders dropping, head lowering, the instinctive response to predator energy.

"Yes sir," he said quietly.

And then, without being asked, without even seeming to realize he was doing it, he bowed.

Actually bowed.

And sped away like his life depended on it.

Phei watched him go, satisfaction curling warm in his chest.

Sir.

Three weeks ago, freshmen didn't even know he existed.

Now they were calling him sir and bowing without prompting.

The Dragon's influence, spreading one terrified underclassman at a time.

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