Their blouses were unbuttoned just enough to flash lace bras and the promise of lawsuits. Knee-high socks completing the "Catholic reform school runaway" fantasy that had launched a thousand therapy bills.

They radiated that specific brand of cheerleader-adjacent energy—actual cheerleaders.

The vibe was pure solar flare: We're hotter than the surface of the sun, we know it, and your retinas should thank us for the privilege of going blind.

The blonde on the left had her hair yanked into a high ponytail so perky it looked like it was trying to escape her skull. Lip gloss shiny enough to signal aircraft, catching the dying light like a distress flare from someone who'd never needed rescuing in her life.

Next to her, the redhead—legs for days, the kind that could kickstart a midlife crisis from across a football field, eyes screaming "I'll ruin your credit score and you'll thank me."

Then the brunette, curves fighting a valiant, losing battle against her sabotaged uniform. She leaned against the wall like a 1950s pinup who'd time-traveled just to make future therapists rich.

Finally, the Asian girl with cheekbones so razor-sharp they could julienne your self-esteem from twenty paces. Her resting expression was pure "I'm already bored of your funeral, make it quick."

All four pairs of eyes locked on him like he'd just been upgraded from background NPC to final boss.

And the looks on their faces? Not the usual "ew, it's the walking scholarship reminder" sneer he'd worn like a second skin for years.

No. This was… hesitation. Nerves. Something dangerously close to curiosity.

The rumors. They've been mainlining the rumors straight into their group chat veins.

Phei's grin sharpened as he closed the distance.

The girls stiffened—not hostile, just suddenly aware they might be prey in a food chain they'd thought they sat atop.

Yesterday he was invisible.

Today he was a glitch in their matrix.

Tomorrow, he'd be the system admin.

He stopped just outside arm's reach, smile lazy and lethal.

"Ladies," he said, letting Charm Speech drip off the word like molasses laced with arsenic.

The blonde's throat bobbed like she'd swallowed a golf ball. The redhead shifted, thighs pressing together in a way that was definitely not subtle. The brunette's lips parted on a tiny, involuntary exhale.

The Asian girl's bored mask fractured—just a hairline crack, but there—something raw and ravenous flickering behind it.

"We're—" the blonde started, brain clearly blue-screening. "Sierra's inside. Waiting."

"I know," Phei said, tilting his head. "So why are you still decorating the doorway?"

Move, he thought. Scoot. Fetch. Roll over. Whatever command fits.

He didn't say it out loud.

He didn't need to.

One by one, they parted like the Red Sea realizing Moses had blackmail material.

The blonde sidestepped left, ponytail whipping like a surrender flag. The redhead drifted right, looking faintly dizzy. The brunette flattened herself against the wall, chest rising and falling too fast, like she'd sprinted here from the realization that power dynamics can flip overnight. The Asian girl held his stare longest—defiant, intrigued, calculating—before finally yielding the path with a tiny, almost imperceptible dip of her chin.

"Good girls."

Phei reached the threshold.

And paused.

System, he thought. Upgrade Dominance Aura. Straight to Level 3.

[UPGRADE REQUESTED: DOMINANCE AURA LV.1 → LV.3

COST: 150 EXP

CURRENT EXP: 650

CONFIRM?]

Confirm.

[UPGRADING…]

It hit like a silent detonation behind his sternum. A low, subterranean thrum that rolled outward, invisible but heavy as gravity dialed up a notch. The air thickened. Not temperature—pressure. The kind that made knees reconsider their life choices.

[DING!

DOMINANCE AURA UPGRADED TO LV.3!

Submissive women: Feel overwhelming draconic authority; moderate physical arousal; desire to submit

Weak-willed men: Experience terror; may suffer erectile dysfunction in your presence

Average-willed men: Feel intimidation; avoid confrontation.]

Behind him, four sharp, synchronized gasps cut the air.

Phei didn't look back, but he felt it all—the hitch in their breathing, the soft, stunned little noises, the way the hallway suddenly smelled faintly of panic and perfume and something sweeter.

"What the hell was that?" the blonde whispered, voice trembling like she'd felt God sneeze.

"Did you—" the redhead sounded drugged.

The brunette breathed, fanning herself with zero subtlety.

The Asian girl stayed silent, but when Phei finally glanced over his shoulder, he caught her knuckles white against the wall, legs pressed tight together, composure shattered into something that looked a lot like surrender dressed up as defiance.

Level 3. Holy shit.

They weren't dropping to their knees reciting vows of fealty. Not yet. This wasn't mind control; it was presence control.

These four? They'd follow reasonable orders now. Hell, they'd volunteer for unreasonable ones if he smiled while asking.

And his definition of "reasonable" was having a very bad day.

Phei turned back, flashed them a smile that belonged on a dragon wearing human skin, and stepped inside.

****

The abandoned music room was exactly as gloriously shitty as memory served: a mausoleum for broken dreams and worse decisions. Dust motes drifted through the slanted, grimy light like lazy confetti at the world's most depressing party.

Upright pianos sagged under tarps that had given up on whiteness sometime during the Obama administration.

Music stands lay toppled like casualties.

A single trumpet on a shelf had tarnished so hard it looked embarrassed to still be here.

The smell slammed into him like a forgotten gym sock dipped in regret: dust, mildew, and the faint, lingering tang of decades of teenage hormones marinating in bad decisions.

This room had seen things—orgies that would've ended in lawsuits, fights that ended in therapy, confessions that ended in restraining orders. If these walls could talk, they'd need a priest, a lawyer, and a really good therapist.

Sierra wasn't lounging dramatically in the main room like some villain waiting for her monologue cue.

Of course she wasn't. That would be too undignified in her opinion.

Phei picked his way deeper, past the skeletal corpse of a drum kit that looked like it had been murdered in the '80s, past amplifiers so ancient they probably ran on Reaganomics and hairspray, past music stands toppled like drunk soldiers after a lost war.

Toward the back.

Where the "VIP section" hid behind a heavy red curtain that had once been theatrical velvet and was now just a sad, moth-chewed tribute to faded glory. It sagged from a brass rod like it had given up on life somewhere around the Clinton administration, pooling on the floor in dusty defeat.

Phei knew exactly what waited behind it.

The "private" lounge.

Sierra's personal torture chamber.

Where she'd made him perch on that biohazard of a couch while she loomed over him, barking orders, reminding him he was only here on scholarship and charity and should be grateful she even let him breathe her air.

Not today, sweetheart.

He swept the curtain aside.

Pitch black swallowed him whole. The kind of darkness that had weight—like sinking into cold tar. Windows boarded up since the dawn of time, turning the storage room into a sensory-deprivation tank for bad ideas.

Phei took one step in—

And a hand fisted his shirt.

Small. Manicured. Surprisingly strong.

It yanked him forward like he was a misbehaving puppy on a leash.

He stumbled into the void, arms windmilling—

And suddenly had an armful of warm, expensive, extremely aggressive girl.

Soft curves slammed against him. Heat bleeding through fabric that cost more than his old phone. Perfume—something French and murderous—mixed with something rawer, needier, like desperation with a side of panic.

She was already moving. Up on her toes. Hands twisting in his shirt like she was trying to climb inside it. Pulling him down as she stretched up—

And then her mouth crashed into his.

Not a kiss.

An assault.

Sierra Montgomery was devouring him.

Hot, wet, frantic—tongue demanding entry like she had a warrant, teeth nipping, lips bruising. She kissed like she was trying to crawl inside his skin and set up permanent residence.

Phei's brain flatlined.

Error 404: Reality not found.

This was Sierra.

The girl who'd once told the entire school he jerked off to photos of her (a lie so vicious it still made his stomach turn).

The girl who'd made him rewrite her essays while calling him "charity trash."

The girl who'd laughed when her friends dumped chocolate milk on his backpack sophomore year.

And now she was trying to fuse their faces together in a pitch-black room that smelled like mold and broken dreams.

Her body molded to his—breasts crushed against his chest, hips rolling in a way that was definitely not accidental. His hands had landed on her waist at some point (traitors), and he could feel the frantic thud of her heart through her ribs.

Little desperate noises escaped her—whimpers, really—muffled against his mouth.

She broke just long enough to gasp, voice wrecked and shaking:

"I couldn't stop thinking about you. All day. All fucking day. What the hell did you do to me?"

Then she dove back in.

Harder.

Like she was starving and he was the first meal she'd seen in weeks.

Phei's hands tightened on her hips—part reflex, part something darker.

His brain finally rebooted, sputtering back online with a single, crystal-clear thought:

…Well.

This is new.

And then, because the universe apparently had a sense of humor blacker than this room:

He kissed her back.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.