"Ladies and gentlemen!" Brett spun in a slow circle, still with the arms. "Welcome to today's main event!"

Oh, for fuck's sake. He's doing a bit.

Anderson stepped forward. "In this corner—" Dramatic gesture at himself. "—the undefeated champion of putting charity cases in their place, the pride and joy of Ashford Academy, the one, the only, BRETT! CASTELLANO!"

The crowd lost their minds. You'd think he'd just announced free Teslas and unlimited vacation days.

"And in the other corner—"

His finger swung toward Phei like a loaded gun.

"—the delusional orphan who thought he could talk shit to his betters, the Maxton family's biggest mistake, the kid who's about to learn what happens when you forget your place… THE! CHARITY! CASE!"

Mixed response this time. Some cheers, some laughs, and—interestingly—a few murmurs that sounded almost uncertain.

Word of the Sierra incident had spread, apparently. Fast.

Anderson stepped forward to sto the shouting with the authority of a substitute teacher trying to control a classroom full of demons. "Alright, alright! Listen up!

"Here are the rules!"

Dramatic pause.

"There ARE no rules!"

Wow. Original. Did you write that yourself or did Kyle help?

"Fight ends when someone can't get up or taps out!" Anderson continued, clearly enjoying his moment as self-appointed referee. "No weapons, no interference, and no running to teachers afterward!"

He shot Phei a look of pure contempt, like the charity case had personally offended his entire bloodline. "You wanted this, charity case. You ran your mouth this morning. Now let's see if you can back it up."

He stepped back, leaving ten feet of empty asphalt between the fighters—like a dramatic pause before the execution.

Brett dropped into a boxing stance. Weight balanced, hands up, chin tucked. The stance of someone who'd actually trained, actually learned, actually put in work.

Phei had to give him that much. The guy could fight.

Could being the operative word.

"Last chance to back out," Brett offered, grin still locked in place like it had been superglued. "Get on your knees, kiss my Jordans, and maybe I'll only break one arm instead of both."

Phei rolled his neck. Cracked his knuckles. Settled into something that wasn't quite a stance—just a loose, ready position that screamed "I have no idea what I'm doing and I don't care."

"You know what, Brett?" he said, letting the Charm Speech smooth his words into something almost friendly. "I've been looking forward to this all day."

Brett's grin flickered.

Good.

"Let's dance."

Brett moved first.

Fast. Explosive. The kind of speed that came from years of drilling combinations until they lived in your muscle memory. Jab to test distance, cross to follow up, hook waiting in reserve.

Classic. Textbook. Boring.

The jab shot toward Phei's face like it had a personal vendetta.

Phei... wasn't there.

He'd shifted right, just barely, the fist passing so close to his cheek he felt the breeze. His body moved before his brain finished processing—instinct, or something that felt like instinct.

The cross came next, Brett's right hand following the failed jab with more heat behind it.

Phei swayed left. Casual. Like he was dodging a slow-motion pillow.

Brett's fist caught nothing but air and disappointment.

"The fuck—"

Brett pressed forward, combinations flowing now, the practiced rhythms of his training taking over. Jab, cross, hook, jab, jab, cross—a relentless assault that should have turned Phei's face into modern art.

Should have.

Phei kept... not getting hit.

His dodges were ugly. No grace, no form, just these jerky movements that looked like he was having a controlled seizure. But somehow—somehow—every punch missed.

The crowd's cheers started to curdle into confusion.

"Hit him!" someone shouted.

"He's right there!" another voice added, helpful as always.

Brett's face was reddening. Not from exertion—from embarrassment. The charity case was making him look like an amateur, and everyone was watching. Everyone was recording.

His combinations got wilder. Less technique, more emotion. Haymakers and power shots that would've knocked out a horse if they'd landed.

They didn't land.

Phei sidestepped a particularly savage right hook—

And stuck out his foot.

It looked accidental. Like he'd stumbled while dodging and his leg had just happened to be in the way. Oops. Clumsy charity case. Can't even stand still properly.

Brett's shin caught the obstacle mid-charge. His balance shattered like cheap glass. And suddenly the pride of Ashford Academy was pinwheeling forward, arms flailing, dignity evaporating.

He face-planted.

Not completely—his hands hit the asphalt first, stopping the full splat—but his nose came close enough to kiss the ground. He scrambled up immediately, face now crimson, and whirled around.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone laughed.

Then someone else.

Then more.

Not a lot. Not the whole crowd. But enough. Enough that Brett could hear it. Enough that his ears were burning.

"Lucky," he snarled. "That was fucking lucky."

"Was it though?" Phei asked, voice carrying like a polite inquiry. "You're the trained boxer, right? Shouldn't you be, I don't know... hitting me?"

More laughter. Louder now.

Danton's phone had lowered slightly. His expression had gone tight.

Brett charged. No more boxing—just pure bull-rush aggression, both hands reaching to grab, to grapple, to take this to the ground where size and strength would matter.

Phei pivoted like a matador.

Brett's momentum carried him past, grasping at nothing, stumbling three steps before he could stop himself.

And as he passed, Phei's fist connected with his side. Right below the ribs. The sweet spot.

The sound Brett made was... unflattering. A high-pitched wheeze, like someone had stepped on a squeeze toy. He doubled over, clutching his side, face contorting.

"That's one," Phei said, calm as if he were counting laps at the pool.

He was having fun. Actually, genuinely having fun. Was that wrong? Probably. Did he care? Absolutely not.

Brett straightened with visible effort. His perfect hair had fallen into his eyes. His rolled-up sleeves had come partially undone. He looked like a before picture in a grooming ad.

"You—fucking—"

He lunged again. Wild. Both hands out, going for the grab, refusing to accept that his boxing wasn't working.

Phei ducked under the grasp, popped up on Brett's left side, and slapped him across the face.

Open palm. Full contact. The CRACK echoed across the parking lot like a gunshot.

Brett's head snapped sideways. Spit flew from his mouth in a graceful arc that someone was definitely going to screenshot.

The crowd went silent.

"Did he just—"

"Holy shit—"

"HE SLAPPED HIM!"

Brett stood frozen for a full second, hand coming up to touch his cheek, brain clearly struggling to process what had just happened.

The charity case had slapped him. In front of everyone. Like he was a misbehaving toddler.

"YOU—"

He threw a wild hook.

Phei swayed back.

Slapped him again. Other cheek.

CRACK.

Symmetry. Very important.

Brett's roar of rage was almost inhuman. He abandoned any pretense of technique and just started swinging—haymakers, wild punches, the desperate flailing of someone whose world was collapsing in real-time.

Phei danced around him.

Light on his feet, loose, almost playful. Every time Brett swung, Phei slipped away, letting the punches whistle past, occasionally tapping Brett's shoulder or chest like a cat batting at a toy.

That's what it looked like now. Dancing. The charity case was dancing around the trained boxer, and the trained boxer couldn't touch him.

A punch to the gut made Brett double over.

A kick to the back of his knee made his leg buckle.

Another slap—this one with some stank on it—left a visible handprint glowing red on Brett's cheek.

"Having fun yet?" Phei asked, voice casual as if he were asking about the weather.

Brett's response was more wheezing than words. His face was a masterpiece of humiliation—red patches blooming from the slaps, sweat pouring, eyes wide with a cocktail of rage, disbelief, and something that looked suspiciously like fear.

The pride of Ashford Academy looked like a toddler who'd just discovered gravity the hard way.

The crowd had given up on cheering for him. The energy had shifted completely. People were laughing openly now. Recording with gleeful expressions instead of bloodthirsty ones.

This was better than what they'd come for.

This was content gold.

"Dude," someone stage-whispered, "Brett's getting his ass handed to him by the charity case."

"My grandmother could fight better than this."

"Is your grandmother single? Asking for a friend."

Brett heard them. Of course he heard them. And something in him snapped.

He screamed—actually screamed, like a wounded animal who'd just realized the zoo was closing early—and launched himself at Phei with everything he had left. Both arms wide, going for the tackle, determined to take this to the ground where size and strength would matter.

Phei didn't move.

Brett's arms closed around him. Success! Finally! He had the charity case! Now he could—

Phei's knee came up.

Not hard. Not full force. Just... enough.

It connected with Brett's groin with a meaty THWAP that made every male in the audience wince in sympathetic agony. The kind of wince that says "I feel that in my soul and I wasn't even involved."

Brett's grip loosened immediately. His eyes crossed. A sound came out of his mouth that was less word and more existential despair.

"Ooooooooooh..."

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