The alarm blared like a fire siren in Askai’s skull.

  He jolted up, disoriented for a moment, the ache behind his eyes pounding like a second heartbeat. His neck protested as he rolled his head, sleep having come in small, cruel fragments. Across the room, Jordan snored quietly, one arm draped protectively over his torso where Askai had bandaged the worst of the bruises.

  Moving quietly, Askai got up, tugged on his hoodie, and went to the cupboard to retrieve a spare toothbrush, a packet of wet wipes, and the half-used tube of antiseptic cream. He placed them near Jordan’s makeshift bed with a sticky note that read:

  “Use these. Food guy’s number stuck below. He takes cash. Don’t open the door unless it’s me.”

  Beneath it, he taped another note with a phone number and a name — “RAVI – DELIVS”.

  He picked up his wallet and the slightly cracked watch—his lifeline through every tight shift, every grueling exam, and every late-night alley sprint. Then, without a backward glance at the fragile peace of the room, he stepped out into the biting chill of the wealthy morning.

  The stadium wasn’t far, and as he reached the private service gate, he sent the required, terse message:

  The response was quicker than the cutting wind. Headlights flashed, and the familiar, sleek black car—a vehicle that smelled of leather, money, and absolute power—pulled up.

  The driver, a man with all the warmth and expression of a polished marble statue, opened the back door. Askai climbed in without a word. They didn’t take the public entrance; the car wound around to a private entry that led directly into the glass-enclosed box, a place of tinted windows, catered luxury, and complete, arrogant exclusivity.

  Askai stepped out and scanned the small, privileged crowd seated inside the enclosure. Vance was already there, lounging in the front row of seats just outside the booth, a navy coat slung loosely over his shoulders like an imperial cape. Askai didn’t wait for an acknowledgment. He quietly took the seat directly behind him.

  Vance didn't even look back. Ruby, beside him, offered a brief, polite "Hi" before turning her polished gaze back to the action on the field.

  Askai glanced sideways. Steve and his crew were not far, and they were staring at him with undisguised contempt, their expressions a symphony of judgment. Askai could practically feel the silent, poisonous thought swirling between them:

  Suddenly unsure of his purpose, of his right to even occupy the air in this gilded cage, he started to rise.

  Vance’s voice, low and laced with a sudden, unnerving authority, cut through the noise of the arena. “Sit down.”

  There was a bite in the command—a cold, sharp edge that instantly froze Askai mid-motion. Then, Vance’s gaze slid over the rest of the occupants of the box, and Askai watched, horrified and fascinated, as many a wealthy spine straightened at his mere, silent glance.

  An eerie, unnatural silence descended over the room, an overwhelming hush that felt much too loud against the backdrop of the maddening cheers of the crowd below. Askai quietly sank back into the plush leather.

  He wished for the props of the day before—the trays, the microphones, the decorative bouquets. At least then he’d felt like he had a purpose, a role to play. Now, he was just... there. A misplaced pawn on a polished, dangerous board.

  The match began. People clapped, shouted, laughed, and some chaos returned to their box. Askai tried to stay alert, but he was too sleep-deprived, the lack of rest and the stress of the night before dragging him down. His eyelids drooped. His limbs felt too heavy. He slumped forward once, caught himself with a sharp breath, and leaned back again, fighting a losing battle.

  Then it happened.

  A sharp ripple of knowing laughter spread through the box.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Askai blinked awake just in time to see the immense jumbotron above the field.

  There, in all its horrifying, magnified clarity, was his face—caught mid-yawn, eyes half-lidded, mouth wide open—positioned directly behind a charmingly smiling Vance, who was waving like a benevolent king to the roaring stadium crowd.

  Askai’s stomach dropped to his shoes. He froze, flushed crimson with acute embarrassment and the chilling realization of how completely exposed he was.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Vance hissed under his breath, his smile never wavering for the cameras, his eyes glittering with cold annoyance.

  Askai snapped his mouth shut, heat flooding his neck.

  Once the camera feed finally moved away, Vance leaned back just enough to throw a devastating glare over his shoulder. “Why the hell are you falling asleep at a game, Askai? What were you doing all night?”

  Askai scowled, the question hitting a nerve. “Assignments.”

  “Assignments?” Vance repeated the word with an arch inflection, as if it were a foreign term.

  “Yeah. You know, unlike you, I don’t have a crew to do them for me.” Askai’s bitterness slipped out, sharp and undeniable.

  Vance stared at him, unblinking, his gaze penetrating. “Why would get the assignments?”

  Askai opened his mouth, ready to unleash a sarcastic retort, but Vance cut him off, his voice smooth and lethally simple. “I assess them.”

  Askai slowly dragged a hand over his face. “Exactly.”

  There it was again—that stark, immovable divide. Vance wasn’t studying to get a job; he was training to give them. Their futures weren’t just different paths; they were opposite sides of a colossal, unyielding wall that Askai would likely never climb over.

  Suddenly, aggressively, Askai’s stomach growled. The sound was loud, raw, and utterly mortifying in the velvet stillness of the box.

  He clutched at his midsection, turning slightly away, humiliation a burning cloak around him.

  Vance sighed, a sound that managed to be theatrical and genuinely annoyed at the same time. “You’re going to ruin yourself like this.”

  A wave of his hand—a gesture of effortless, inherited authority—and suddenly staff were bringing trays of exquisite food: cut fruit, tiny sandwiches, hot coffee. Vance picked up one of the perfectly arranged sandwiches and handed it back to Askai.

  Askai hesitated, his pride warring with the gnawing hunger.

  “Eat,” Vance commanded, his eyes fixed on him, sharp and demanding. “Before the camera comes back and catches you fainting from starvation.”

  Askai took the tray with a muffled “Thanks” and started eating fast, stuffing his mouth, chewing furiously, simply to keep from saying something he'd regret.

  But Vance wasn’t done dissecting him.

  “I don’t get it,” Vance said, watching him with the detached curiosity of a scientist studying an unusual specimen. “Where do you get this confidence from?”

  Askai blinked, mid-bite. “What?”

  “This... ‘above it all’ thing you do. This too-good-to-beg, too-tired-to-care attitude. I can’t tell if you think you’re smarter than the rest of us, or if you’re just stupidly proud.”

  Askai didn’t reply. He couldn't. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was just the only way he knew how to breathe in this suffocating atmosphere.

  Vance, however, was clearly in a chatty, dissecting mood. Despite the warning bells clanging wildly in his head, Askai made a fundamental mistake. He asked: “How does the orphanage pick kids?”

  Vance looked mildly surprised by the abrupt shift in topic, but answered without missing a beat. “Families under Regale—or affiliated ones—sponsor kids at charity galas. The chosen ones go to the foundation.”

  Askai nodded, thinking of Kael. “And what if a kid just happened to be at one of those events? Do they just... pick them up if they look sad enough?”

  “That’s dumb,” Vance said flatly, his disgust palpable. “Even for you. PR pre-selects them. Has to look perfect. No wildcards. It’s a showcase, not a rescue mission.”

  Askai rolled his eyes, the movement sharp and painful. Forget class gaps. They were dealing with a class chasm—a gulf of experience and understanding too wide to ever cross.

  He leaned back. “Speaking of dumb things—why are you dragging me everywhere when you’ve already got a team of sycophants falling over themselves for a handshake?”

  Vance’s crooked smile returned, a gesture that was utterly lethal. “Oh, Askai. You’re the first person who dumped me after a kiss. I want to know why.”

  “I told you I didn’t.”

  “I don’t believe it. I taste every word you say. And I know a lie when I hear one.”

  “You’re confusing.”

  “You’re interesting.”

  Askai sighed into his sandwich, feeling completely outmaneuvered. “You’ll get bored soon.”

  “I might,” Vance said, swiping a cookie from Askai’s tray and popping it into his mouth, his eyes never leaving Askai’s face. “But until then…”

  He didn’t finish the sentence, the silence more of a threat than any words could have been.

  That’s when Askai noticed the strange atmosphere again, the oppressive stillness around them. By now, the other elites should have been watching them. Whispering. Curious glances and jealous murmurs should have rippled through the box. But they all sat unnaturally straight, staring right ahead as if under a powerful, silent command. What secrets did they know that Askai didn’t?

  Vance, however, didn’t seem to care about their silence. He smiled like he owned the very sky above the stadium.

  Askai’s throat went dry. Jordan’s voice rang loud and clear in his mind, a brutal prophecy: “The more you reveal, the more they’ll use it when the time comes.”

  Askai clenched his fists under the tray. He was drifting into something he couldn’t afford—a dangerous, intoxicating game with a man who could destroy his life with a whim. He needed to stop.