Ashford Elite Academy looked different from this side of power.

Same Gothic architecture that screamed we have old money and zero taste. Same manicured lawns that probably had their own therapy bills from the pressure of being perfect. Same pretentious fountain in the courtyard featuring some naked Greek dude who'd been pissing into a marble bowl for approximately two hundred years.

Classy. Very classy.

Five days ago, Phei had walked through these gates like a kicked dog hoping not to get kicked again.

Head down. Shoulders hunched.

Practically apologising for existing with every step.

Three days ago, he'd been furniture. Background noise. The human equivalent of that weird stain on the carpet everyone pretends not to see.

Today?

Today he walked like he owned the place.

Which he didn't. Obviously.

But nobody needs to know that.

Spine straight. Shoulders back. Blazer slung over one arm, tie loose but intentional, shirt untucked in that carefully careless way that said I know the dress code, I just don't give a shit. His hair fell across his face in artful chaos, dark strands framing eyes that seemed to catch the morning light and hold it hostage.

Charisma 90, Alright!

He could feel it working. The subtle shift in attention as he passed. The double-takes from students who'd never looked at him twice before. The whispers that started up in his wake like ripples spreading across still water.

"Is that... Phei Maxton?"

"No way. He looks completely different."

"Did you hear about yesterday? The fight with Brett?"

"I heard he destroyed him. Like, completely destroyed him."

Phei let the whispers wash over him, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.

Yeah. That's right. Keep talking.

He made his way through the main building, past the trophy cases and the administrative offices and the portrait of some dead rich guy who'd donated enough money to get a wing named after him.

The hallways were filling up with students now—the morning rush of designer backpacks and expensive perfume and casual cruelty disguised as social hierarchy.

And then he turned the corner toward his locker.

And stopped.

Well, well, well. Looks like my packages were well received.

They were all there.

All seven of them.

Clustered around his locker like the world's most pathetic welcoming committee. Or maybe a support group for people who'd recently discovered that karma was real and she was pissed.

The Unholy Trinity—Brett, Anderson, and Kyle—were closest, floating around his locker like they couldn't decide whether to run, vomit, or convert to a religion that offered better protection against blackmail.

Brett looked like absolute shit. And not the I stayed up late gaming kind of shit. The I've seen my future and it's full of fire and public humiliation kind of shit.

Dark circles carved trenches beneath his eyes, his usually perfect hair looking like he'd been pulling at it all night—which he probably had.

Golden boy? More like garbage boy at this point.

Anderson kept glancing around like a meerkat on cocaine, flinching at every sudden movement. Kyle was staring at his phone with the expression of a man reading his own obituary, probably checking for the hundredth time that yes, those screenshots were real, and yes, his life was indeed over.

Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

A few feet back stood the supporting cast of this disaster: Zack Preston, sweating through his designer shirt despite the air conditioning; Derek, jaw clenched so tight Phei could practically hear his molars crying for help; and Aiden, trying desperately to maintain that casual authority he always carried but looking more like a constipated mannequin than a natural leader.

And at the furthest edge of the group, looking like he'd walked in on his own funeral and discovered they'd used an unflattering photo...

Danton.

Oh, this is Christmas morning and my birthday and the day I discovered porn all rolled into one.

His dear cousin was white as a sheet. Not tired white. Not coming down with something white. Full-on I've just realised God is real and He's been taking notes white.

Deep bags hung under his eyes—purple-black crescents that told a story of a night spent staring at the ceiling, contemplating every life choice that had led to this moment. Danton hadn't slept. Couldn't have slept.

Had probably spent the entire night watching that three-second video clip on loop, pausing and rewinding like maybe—maybe—if he watched it enough times it would turn out to be fake.

Spoiler: it wasn't fake.

Phei knew exactly what was on that video.

Danton. In his room. With his laptop open to a very special folder. A folder that would make Freud sit up in his grave and say, "I fucking told you people." A folder filled with photos of his own twin sister Delilah—candid shots, bikini pics from the pool, that dress she'd worn to the charity gala that showed off her legs.

And Danton's hand, very clearly, very unmistakably, doing something that would make family dinners really awkward if anyone else ever found out.

Jacking off to your own sister. Classy, Danton. Real classy. The Maxton family values really shining through there.

When had Phei caught him? Danton's obsession for his sister was going on for years now.

Danton's eyes found his across the hallway.

Phei held the gaze. Didn't blink. Didn't look away. Just stared at his step-brother with the calm, patient expression of someone who had all the cards and knew it.

Yeah. I know what you did. I have proof. And if you ever—EVER—fuck with me again, everyone will know that Danton Maxton jerks off to pictures of his own sister.

How's that feel, dear Cous?

Danton looked away first.

That's what I thought.

Dominance Aura. Cool Aura.

Working in perfect, terrible harmony.

He reached his locker.

The seven boys stood frozen, like statues of cowards caught mid-pose.

"Morning, gentlemen," he said, voice smooth and pleasant. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

No one answered.

Smart.

Phei chuckled—a quiet, involuntary exhale of mirth, the sort that slips out when the universe reveals one of its crueler, more exquisite jokes. It wasn't loud, wasn't performative; merely the soft acknowledgment of something absurdly amusing in a world already teetering on the brink of farce.

But the Charm Speech cared naught for subtlety. His chuckle emerged laced with honeyed silk, a velvet caress of sound that could coax confessions from nuns or suicides from the happily married.

An angelic timbre, really—one that would make a seraphim weep with envy, or perhaps with the sudden, shameful realization of her own inadequacies voicewise.

Two junior girls glided past, encased in their uniform armor of designer skirts and hair sculpted with the devotion of ancient priests tending sacrificial altars. They halted as if yanked by invisible leashes, bodies freezing mid-stride in a parody of living statues.

They turned.

They beheld him.

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