The mask fell away completely.

What emerged underneath was not rage. Not fury. Not even hate.

It was recognition.

The recognition of a predator that has finally been given permission to stop pretending.

He rose from the desk.

Slowly.

Unfolding with the kind of liquid, deliberate grace that made every instinct in the room scream apex. Derek's boys took an involuntary half-step back—didn't even realise they'd done it—spines prickling, guts clenching, lizard brains firing the same primal telegram over and over.

Run.

He wasn't doing anything. Just standing. Just looking at them with eyes that had shifted from impossible purple to something darker, deeper—slitted now, glowing faintly in the shitty fluorescent light like bioluminescence in deep ocean trenches.

But the air had changed.

Thickened.

Derek felt it first—pressure slamming down on his shoulders, his sternum, his lungs. Gravity turning personal. Malicious. His next breath came shallow, ragged. Heart slamming against ribs like it wanted out. Every evolutionary alarm screaming one unified message:

This is not prey.

This is predator.

RUN.

Derek took a step back.

Didn't mean to.

His legs simply obeyed.

Phei stepped forward.

Derek retreated again.

The boy in front of him was no longer the skinny, hollow-eyed charity case they'd used as a stress toy. No longer the kid who curled fetal on concrete while boots rained down, who never swung back because swinging back only made it last longer.

This was something else.

Taller—looking down at Derek even though Derek was six-two and built like a linebacker. Leaner. Not gym-bro bulk. Not show muscle. Functional. Weaponised. Every line of him carved for efficiency—sharp traps, corded forearms, the kind of vascularity that spoke of low body fat and high adrenaline and the precise application of force.

"You know what's genuinely amusing?" Phei's voice was soft now. Almost tender. The tenderness of a garrotte tightening one millimetre at a time.

"Three weeks ago you could have done exactly this. Walked in here with your pack. Beat me until I pissed blood. Walked out laughing. No consequences. No comebacks. Just another Tuesday in paradise. Another hospital bill for the scholarship kid."

Another measured step forward.

Derek's back hit the wall.

When had the wall gotten so close?

"But that was three weeks ago." Phei's smile returned—thin, serrated, all teeth and no humour. "And you—you fucking moron—walked in here believing the calendar hadn't turned. Believing you could still treat me like the old days. Believing numbers and mass and bravado would be enough against someone who's already survived worse than anything you can dream up."

(Chapter Name; Numbers and Bravado)

Derek's enforcers were supposed to move. That was the plan. Grab. Punch. Break.

They weren't moving.

They were statues. Eyes wide. Breathing shallow. Staring at Phei like men who had just realised the tiger enclosure didn't have bars—and the tiger was hungry.

"How?" The word tore out of Derek before he could choke it back. "How the fuck did you change this fast? Three weeks. Three fucking weeks. You were nothing. Less than nothing. And now—"

"Now I'm the devil you came crawling to."

"I'm not crawling."

"No. You're not." Phei's laugh was soft, mirthless. "You came armed. Came ready to take by force what you couldn't beg for. Renee told you to fuck the devil himself if necessary—and you thought you could just wrap your hands around his throat and make him perform."

Derek's face drained to ash. "How do you even know what she—"

"I know everything, Derek." Phei's voice dropped to a register that vibrated in the sternum. "I know what Renee has on you. I know what you did to that girl in the guest wing of your lake house last summer. I know about the videos. The timestamps. The evidence bags sealed with your father's personal crest because even your family lawyers know better than to let your DNA float around unsecured. I know every whimper. Every plea. Every time you told her to shut up or you'd make it worse."

"That's not—"

"I remember what you did to me." The words came out like frostbite. "Every fist. Every boot. Every time you pinned my arms while the others took turns. Every laugh while I bled on concrete. Every time you whispered 'charity case can take it' like it was gospel. Did you think memory was a one-way street? Did you think I wasn't counting?"

"We were just—"

"You were just having fun?" Acid dripped from every syllable. "That's the story you told yourselves, isn't it? Just boys being boys. Just hazing. Just breaking in the new blood. The orphan kid could take it. The orphan kid didn't matter. No one would miss him. No one would care."

"Phei—"

"I matter now."

He rolled his shoulders once—slow, deliberate, vertebrae popping like small-calibre rounds being chambered.

Then he looked at the three frozen enforcers.

"Well?" Voice velvet. "Are we doing this or not?"

They did it.

All at once, because they weren't smart enough to do anything else, because pride glued their feet to the floor, because in their small, screaming brains three-on-one still meant victory.

Phei smiled.

Did these idiots really believe he'd eaten fists from Kieran—real beatings, the kind that cracked ribs and left him coughing red mist for days—just so they could still treat him like the old punching bag?

Thick Neck lunged first. Wild haymaker, arm like a felled tree trunk, enough force to cave a skull if it connected.

Phei wasn't there.

A fractional lean, body tilting on the ball of his foot, the punch slicing air so close it ruffled his hair. Thick Neck's momentum betrayed him—stumbling forward, overcommitted—and Phei flowed behind him in the same breath, silent, weightless.

Wiry kid next. Quicker. Jab-cross, sharp, drilled.

Phei slipped left—jab missed by a hair. Slipped right—cross cut nothing but shadow. Then the wrestler dropped low, shooting for the double-leg, hands clawing for thighs.

Phei sprawled hard, hips slamming down, spine arching, denying the grip. The wrestler's fingers closed on empty air. Before he could recover, Phei had already spun, using the wrestler's hunched body as a screen, forcing Wiry to hesitate.

"Come on," Phei said, voice light, almost playful. "Three big boys. One charity case. This should be child's play. No?"

Thick Neck bellowed and charged again. The other two surged with him.

Phei danced.

Not flashy. Not showy. Just cruel efficiency—sliding through the storm of fists and grabs like smoke through fingers. Every punch found vacancy. Every tackle met only pivot and absence. They collided with each other instead: Thick Neck's elbow cracked Wiry across the cheekbone, Wrestler's shoulder slammed Thick Neck's ribs, turning their numbers into liabilities.

Phei hadn't thrown a single strike.

He was humiliating them with geometry and patience.

"Fuck—hold still—"

"He's—he's gone—"

"GRAB HIM—"

Thick Neck finally pinned him against the desks, arms wide, chest heaving, grinning because the corner was his now, nowhere left to run.

Phei stopped.

Stood still.

Looked up at Thick Neck with something close to boredom.

"Your problem," he said quietly, "is you've never fought someone who wasn't already broken."

Thick Neck's grin flickered.

"I'm not broken anymore."

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