3:27 PM

The parking lot behind Ashford Elite Academy had given up any pretense of being a place to park overpriced cars and fully embraced its true calling: a cut-rate Roman colosseum for rich kids with too much allowance and not enough therapy.

Students ringed the perimeter three and four deep in spots, a writhing wall of blazers and entitlement, phones hoisted like torches at a witch-burning. Everyone shoving, elbowing, climbing onto hoods for that perfect viral angle—because nothing said "I matter" like filming some poor bastard's humiliation in 4K.

Phei stood at the edge of the circus, surveying the madness, and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

All this turnout.

For him.

The walking charity receipt.

A week ago, these same vultures wouldn't have crossed the street to piss on him if he was on fire, burning alive.

Hell, they'd probably have roasted marshmallows and live-streamed it with the caption; natural selection doing its thing. Now they'd assembled like it was the Super Bowl halftime show, popcorn buckets in spirit if not in hand, ready to watch Brett Castellano turn his face into abstract art.

Paradise truly had a garbage entertainment budget.

His eyes swept the crowd, mentally sorting the audience like a jaded bouncer.

The basic rabble were out in force—Downtown Paradise kids, the ones who weren't quite Legacy but still too rich to take the bus. They formed the noisy outer ring, mouths already running, thumbs hammering out commentary that would get three likes and one crying emoji.

"Bet Brett ends it in 10 seconds flat 💀"

"Charity case boutta catch these hands and a lawsuit"

"Someone start a gofundme for his dental bill lmao"

Predictable. Disposable. Human confetti.

But dotted among the extras were the real players.

Delilah stood front-row center, arms folded, wearing that serene little smile she reserved for natural disasters and his personal suffering. She'd claimed her spot early, probably already rehearsing the dinner-table retelling: "And then Brett hit him so hard I felt it in my soul—pass the wine, darling."

And right beside her—because the universe had a sense of humor crueler than his—was Danton.

Cousin dearest lounged against some poor sophomore's Mercedes like he was posing for a yacht catalog, phone up, recording in cinematic landscape mode. Professional quality, of course. This was Ashford. Amateur footage was for public schools.

Danton caught his stare and lifted the phone a fraction. A lazy wave. A silent promise: Smile pretty, little brother. This is going viral.

Phei smiled back.

Wide. All teethy. The kind of grin that belonged on a shark that had just discovered legs.

Danton's perfect brow twitched—confusion flickering across that golden face like a glitch in the matrix.

That's right, asshole. Something's off today. Enjoy the show from the wrong side of the screen for once.

Phei's gaze drifted upward to the luxury boxes.

Third-floor windows overlooking the asphalt arena—air-conditioned, tinted, safely removed from the peasant sweat below.

Silhouettes pressed against the glass like patrons at a gladiator match who'd paid extra for the blood not to splatter their loafers.

Too important to join the common rabble. Too nosy to miss the show.

Natasha Sinclair's sleek blonde hair caught the light in one pane. The Secretary of State's daughter, slumming it by watching street justice through reinforced glass instead of a filtered TikTok feed.

Standards were slipping.

Next window: Yuki Tanaka, tiny and motionless, face lit by the glow of her own phone screen—probably watching a livestream of the fight that was literally happening thirty feet beneath her.

Why experience reality raw when you could add a beauty filter first?

Aanya Kapoor held court in another frame, flanked by her usual swarm of admirers, all of them peering down with the mild irritation of people whose spa appointments might run late. "This better be quick; I have a pore extraction at four."

The Academy Belles. Elevated. Insulated. Interested enough to watch, too refined to cheer.

And then, in the farthest window—removed from the clusters, standing deliberately alone—was Sierra.

Arms wrapped tight around herself like she was holding something in.

Or holding herself together, huh.

Even at this distance, Phei could feel the weight of her stare—steady, piercing, unreadable. After the hallway—after the wall, the whispers, the way her body had gone soft and treacherous against his—she was still here.

Still watching.

"Probably trying to decide if she wants to kiss me or kill me. Honestly, same, Sierra. Same."

Still thinking about what I'd said, maybe. Or once again; plotting my murder. Fifty-fifty.

Phei filed that away under "things to worry about later" and kept scanning the crowd like a bored lifeguard waiting for someone to drown.

Sienna. His other step-sister. Harder to spot—she'd buried herself at the back of the ground-level mob, half-hidden behind a knot of seniors like she was trying to cosplay as a wallflower. Probably was.

Sienna had always been the "softest" of the step-siblings. Not soft enough to ever actually help him, of course—god forbid she risk her social standing—but soft enough to feel a vague, uncomfortable twinge of guilt while watching him suffer although she took part in them too.

Baby steps. Progress. Maybe next time she'd send him a sympathy emoji. Or a participation trophy.

And there—

Maya Scarlett.

She stood off to the side, detached from any group, dark hair catching the late-afternoon sun like it was trying to start a fire. When his eyes found hers, she was already staring. That same odd expression from this morning: not bloodthirsty like the rest of the hyenas, not cruel.

Just… curious.

Like she was watching a zoo exhibit that had suddenly learned to juggle.

She gave him a small nod.

Phei had no idea what the hell that meant, but he'd take it. One ally in a sea of popcorn-munching spectators was better than none.

One more face to find.

Marcus.

Phei swept the crowd, the windows, the periphery. Looking for the spineless wonder Sierra had been willing to nuke his life over.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

The boy wasn't here. Couldn't be bothered. A parking lot brawl was apparently beneath His Royal Blandness's dignity.

Un-fucking-believable.

Sierra was up there in that window, probably still raw from their hallway encounter—body remembering the press of his, mind replaying every whispered word—and the guy she'd schemed for couldn't even show up to watch the fireworks.

There was a cosmic joke in there somewhere. A really bad one. The kind that made you laugh until you cried, then cry until you laughed again.

"YO! THE DEAD MAN FINALLY SHOWED!"

The shout cut through the noise like a chainsaw through butter, followed by cheers usually reserved for visiting sports teams. If the sports team was about to commit felony assault.

Phei turned toward the center of the asphalt arena.

Brett Castellano stood in the middle of the cleared space, arms spread wide like a discount Jesus who'd skipped leg day but not ego day.

He'd stripped off his blazer—very dramatic—and rolled up his sleeves to show off forearms that probably had their own workout TikTok account.

Behind him, arranged like backup dancers at a very aggressive boy-band concert, stood Anderson, Kyle, and three other guys whose sole purpose in life was to laugh at Brett's jokes and hold his protein shakes.

"Thought you might run!" Brett bellowed, voice pitched to carry over the crowd. "Thought you might hide in your little closet room and cry!"

Closet room.

Technically accurate.

Still rude.

"But nah!" Brett continued, really hitting his stride now, bouncing on his toes like he'd mainlined Red Bull. "The charity case actually showed up! Give it up for him, everybody! Takes real balls to walk to your own funeral!"

Laughter. Cheers. The general roar of teenagers who'd never experienced real consequences and probably never would.

Phei walked forward.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea—except instead of fleeing Egyptians, it was just the lingering cloud of whatever body spray these trust-fund gremlins bathed in. Eau de Privilege, probably.

He kept his pace steady. Unhurried. Like he was strolling to the cafeteria for a sad sandwich, not walking into a fight against someone who could probably bench-press him and use him as a dumbbell afterward.

When he reached the edge of the circle, he stopped and looked at Brett.

Really looked.

The guy was bouncing like he needed to pee, shadowboxing the air, throwing little combinations at nothing. The whole performance screamed "I've watched too many Rocky movies and missed the point of every single one."

The shout cut through the noise like a chainsaw through butter, followed by cheers usually reserved for visiting sports teams. If the sports team was about to commit felony assault.

Phei turned toward the center of the asphalt arena.

Brett bellowed, voice pitched to carry over the crowd; "Ladies and gentlemen!"

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