They'd surrounded him. Five girls forming a loose, practiced circle, cutting off escape routes with the casual cruelty of predators who'd ruined lives for sport before.

Sierra had stepped close—invading his space, pressing those firm tits inches from his chest—and started talking in that sweet, venom-dripping voice of hers.

Everyone had only seen her fix her shirt!

And then she'd screamed.

Had grabbed her own shirt, yanked it even wider open so her bare tits nearly spilled out, nipples nearly fully exposed for a flash that only he saw, and screamed that he'd touched her.

That he'd groped her perfect breasts. That the filthy charity case had sexually harassed Sierra Montgomery, daughter of one of Paradise's founding families, right here in the hallway in front of her paid-off witnesses.

Her friends had piled on instantly. "We saw it. He grabbed her tits. He's a disgusting pervert. He's been eye-fucking her all day like the creep he is."

None of it was true. He hadn't touched her. Hadn't even looked at her until she'd blocked his path like a spider dropping on prey. But truth was irrelevant at Ashford Elite Academy. What mattered was who owned the narrative—and who owned the school.

Sierra was Legacy. Mainline, untouchable Legacy. Her word against his was less a contest and more a public execution.

The Vice Principal had been summoned. Marcus had shown up—Marcus, the prize she'd been wet for weeks, the reason she'd staged this whole obscene theater. Teachers had gathered.

Students had whipped out phones, recording every second for viral humiliation.

And Phei had been dragged to the administrative offices, accused of sexual assault, his frantic denials ignored because who the fuck was going to believe the academy trash over Sierra Montgomery?

The VP had known. Phei had seen it in his eyes—that guilty flicker of recognition that this was pure, fabricated bullshit, that Sierra was playing deadly games, that an innocent kid was about to be crucified for something he didn't do.

But the VP had also seen two Legacy families glaring him down. Sierra's connections. The crushing weight of the Montgomery name. The unspoken promise of ruined careers, lawsuits, and social exile if he didn't fall in line and sacrifice the disposable boy to protect the golden girl.

So, the VP caved like the spineless corporate drone he was. Handed Phei three days of scrubbing shit-stained toilets and mopping piss off bathroom floors.

A "light" punishment compared to expulsion or criminal charges, but still a permanent stain on his record for a crime he never fucking committed. Still another public humiliation to heap on the ever-growing mountain of reasons he hated this gilded hellhole.

And Sierra had gotten exactly what her spoiled, sadistic little heart desired. Marcus's undivided attention—finally noticing her perky tits and cockteasing smirk. A juicy story to giggle about at coke-fueled Legacy parties.

The rush of grinding someone weaker beneath her designer heel just because Daddy's money said she could.

That was Tuesday.

The Tuesday in the original timeline he'd almost forgotten, because the Sunday theft accusation had been so much worse—had eclipsed every smaller torture that week like a nuclear blast hides paper cuts.

He'd dodged it with that weaponized fart barrage at the hospital, turning himself into a temporary laughingstock to avoid a permanent criminal record.

Which meant Tuesday was still barreling toward him like a freight train loaded with razor wire and lube.

And he was standing in the exact same spot, watching the exact same scene unfold in high, vicious definition—with the exact same soul-crushing outcome waiting if he didn't flip the fucking table this time.

Sierra's ice-blue eyes locked onto his rare purple amethyst ones across the crowded hallway, and the contact alone felt like frozen fingers sliding straight down his spine and wrapping around his cock.

She smirked.

Not a friendly smirk. Not even straightforward cruelty. Just pure, aristocratic certainty—the look of a girl who'd already won the game, already pictured him on his knees begging, and was simply savoring the slow, inevitable collection of her prize.

The queen bitch of Ashford Elite Academy—or as close as you could get without actually carrying the Ashford name—had slipped into full performance mode.

This wasn't casual bullying. This was theater. Carefully rehearsed, perfectly lit, and he was the disposable extra about to be sacrificed for the standing ovation.

Phei's feet felt welded to the polished marble. His body frozen by the crushing weight of déjà vu, by the crystal-clear preview of the coming destruction.

He could turn and run. Could try to—

No. He fucking couldn't.

A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed the killbox was complete.

The Unholy Trinity loomed at the other end of the corridor like hired muscle in letterman jackets.

Brett's grin was all teeth and anticipation, practically drooling at the chance to put hands on him. Anderson already had his phone up and recording, lens pointed like a sniper scope. Kyle was bouncing on his heels, dick half-hard in his khakis at the promise of violence and humiliation.

And just behind them, half-hidden in the growing crowd, Danton leaned against the lockers with arms crossed—cold gray eyes watching, orchestrating, making damn sure his little puppets danced the right steps.

Boxed in.

In front: Sierra and her venomous clique gliding closer with the synchronized grace of predators who'd done this dance a dozen times. Behind: Brett's crew sealing the exit like a wall of steroid-pumped entitlement.

The trap snapped shut.

The jaws were already tasting blood.

Sierra was ten feet away.

Eight.

Six.

Her pack fanned out as they advanced, sliding into that same loose, practiced circle from the original timeline—ready to surround him the instant she gave the signal.

"Phei Maxton," Sierra purred, voice pitched perfectly to carry through the hallway, sweet and musical and laced with arsenic. "I've been looking for you."

The words hit like the opening salvo in a war he was destined to lose—innocent to anyone listening, catastrophic to him.

Four feet.

Three.

She stopped inches from him. Invading. Overwhelming.

Close enough that her expensive perfume flooded his lungs like chloroform, close enough that he could see every straining thread of that unbuttoned shirt clinging to her braless tits, close enough that her hard little nipples brushed the air between them.

Close enough that any bystander would swear the filthy charity boy had cornered the princess.

Her friends closed the ring. Five perfectly manicured predators encircling him now, bodies angled to block escape, smiles sharp as switchblades. The hallway crowd was already slowing, conversations dying, heads turning. The audience assembling for the public execution.

Phones rose like periscopes. Always the fucking phones—ready to immortalize the moment his life cracked open and bled out on the marble.

Sierra tilted her head, that smug, victorious smirk still painted across her perfect cock-sucking lips.

"You know," she said, loud enough for every recording mic to catch it crystal clear, "I've been thinking about you all morning. About what you did to me last week."

Here it comes.

Phei's mind screamed through options at lightspeed. Barrel through Brett's line? They'd tackle him, pin him, make it look like violent guilt.

Try to reason with her?

She was a world-class liar with a rehearsed chorus ready to back every filthy accusation. Stand there and eat it again? That path ended in toilet brushes, whispered "pervert" taunts, and another fracture in his soul.

And with fucking Marcus backing her? No Way!

None of the options were good. Not a single fucking one.

But there was one option that wasn't on any sane person's list.

One that would absolutely get him suspended. Probably expelled.

One that Sierra would scream about louder than any fake assault, one that would have him dragged in front of the VP within minutes, his scholarship shredded, his name turned into an even bigger joke—or worse, a cautionary tale whispered in the dorms about the charity kid who finally snapped.

But it would also shatter the script.

Would burn the whole carefully rehearsed play to the ground and piss on the ashes.

Would prove—to Sierra, to Brett, to Danton, to every phone-wielding vulture circling for content—that Phei Maxton was done eating their shit. Done playing the helpless victim in their rigged game.

Sierra's hand was rising now, slow and theatrical, fingers brushing the edge of her already scandalously open shirt.

Preparing to clutch the fabric, to yank it wider, to let those perfect braless tits flash the hallway just long enough for plausible deniability before she unleashed that blood-curdling scream: He touched me! He grabbed me! Pervert! Predator!

The same move. The same poisonous play. The same trap that had worked flawlessly last time because he'd stood there frozen, polite, innocent, and utterly fuckable in their eyes—easy prey.

Do or die.

The words slammed into his skull like a war drum, crystal-clear and final.

Either he did something—something drastic, something irreversible, something that would rewrite this moment in fire—or history would repeat itself verbatim. One-week-old history that still bled raw because he'd died before the scab could form.

Either he acted, or he remained the same broken boy who let the world use him as a punching bag.

Either he stepped into the Dragon the system kept growling about inside his veins, or he proved that nothing had changed except the color of his eyes and the monster throbbing between his legs.

Sierra's manicured fingers closed around her collar, ready to pull.

The crowd inhaled as one, phones steady, hungry for the kill shot.

And Phei made his choice.

Do.

Or die.

Do.

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