Morning broke, gray and slow, filtering through the narrow, expensive slits in the blinds. Askai stirred first, blinking away the low, bone-deep ache in his spine from the half-sleep he’d managed. Jordan was already sitting up, rubbing his face with a guttural grunt, the residue of last night's raw tension still clinging to him.

  Askai swung his legs off the bed, the cheap mattress groaning beneath him. “I’m coming with you to Coral’s.”

  Jordan shook his head, a weary dismissal. “No need. After last night, even Coral would’ve sobered up. The words travel fast. And I have the money. What could he possibly hold against me now that he doesn't already?”

  Askai frowned, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease, but he didn’t push it. Moraine had been a cancer in Jordan’s life ever since that deal went south—a persistent, vicious bully. It had only been the formidable shadow of Uncle Tommie that had kept him leashed, but even a leashed animal manages to chew the scenery, making Jordan’s every move hell.

  “Just don’t walk into a trap, Jordan,” Askai warned, his voice low and serious. “If you smell something funny down there—if the air tastes wrong—know that I have your back. Call me.” He emphasized the last two words like a command, a promise of swift retribution.

  Jordan nodded, a genuine, slightly tired smile cracking his guarded expression. “I am sorry, Brother. Didn’t want to drag you back in this horseshit again. I want you to know it.”

  “Beat it.” Askai cut him off, grabbing his towel from the chair. He was headed toward the tiny, cramped bathroom when his phone buzzed, vibrating a frantic plea against his thigh. He pulled it out, staring at the screen. It was a new text. He sighed—Vance, again. The sheer persistence of the heir was exhausting.

  “What ?” Jordan asked, already pulling on a fresh, faded t-shirt.

  Askai read the message, his tone tightening with irritation. “He’s calling again. Wants something. Probably another , another charity spectacle

  Jordan stretched, wincing as his muscles protested. “Let it go for now. He will find someone else to bother soon enough. Give me some time, and I will look into him.” He paused, then added with a sudden softening, his frown shifting from worry to tenderness. “I got a call from Kael’s teacher at the orphanage. She said we should drop by today. Said Kael’s been asking about us.”

  Askai looked up, the mention of the boy instantly dissolving some of the hard, defensive tension in his frame. “Let’s go together this evening, then. I’ll finish my classes by four.”

  Jordan nodded, already rising to dress, his focus momentarily pulled back to the one true piece of light in their chaotic lives. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

  Askai walked through the cold, imposing stone archway of Nolan University’s East WingElite Lounge’s

  He had barely thirty minutes before his first class—and his stomach gnawed in fierce protest, reminding him that the scramble for money had meant skipping breakfast again. A stop at the general canteen would have made pragmatic sense. But Vance’s texts had been relentless, a series of increasingly polite, increasingly demanding directives.

  So here he was. Again.

  The double glass doors of the Lounge whispered open as he pushed inside, an automatic, silent welcome that felt deeply ironic.

  It was like stepping into another, more rarefied world—soft, heavy leather chairs, highly polished darkwood tables, the faint, intoxicating scent of ridiculously expensive coffee hanging in the air. Every occupant wore their wealth like second skin—fresh-pressed uniforms, cufflinks that weren’t merely decorative but silently announced lineage, subtle rings that were not accessories but legacy markers.

  And at the center of it all, like gravity itself, sat Vance.

  He was lounging casually at the head of the long table, dressed in soft grey with tailored precision, his expression as unreadable as a sealed vault. To his right sat Steven—arms folded, his lips curled into a familiar sneer—and to his left, Ruby, who was scrolling idly through something on a crystal-encased phone. A few other non-entities flanked the corners, laughing softly, murmuring things that sounded like abstract art, insider politics, and unfathomable sums of money.

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  Askai had only taken one step in when Vance looked up and, without uttering a single word, gestured for him to come over.

  Then, silently, Vance nudged his fingers toward Steven—an elegant, almost lazy gesture—and Steve’s jaw visibly clenched. He rose instantly, moving without protest, but definitely not without venom. The look he shot Askai as he passed was pure, unadulterated bile. It was a promise of pain, delayed but not forgotten.

  Askai didn’t blink, but the warning planted itself in his gut like a cold seed. Steven wasn’t just irritated; he was meticulously calculating. It wouldn’t be long before he became a real, tangible problem.

  Askai momentarily dismissed the threat. he decided. The dark thought, shockingly, almost made his day.

  He slid into the empty seat beside Vance, angling a challenging brow at his host. Vance didn’t so much as glance back—just continued sipping from a porcelain mug, his face a flawless, irritating wall.

  Askai shifted uncomfortably until a silver-domed plate was silently placed in front of him. Breakfast.

  Ruby leaned toward him, her perfume subtle and expensive. “You can request anything you like. We usually pre-order, but the Chef adjusts for preference.”

  Askai gave her a short, non-committal nod and didn’t reply. Instead, he picked the closest thing—a stuffed pastry—and bit into it. Still warm. Ridiculously flaky. Far too good for someone like him. His empty stomach offered up a pathetic, muffled growl of gratitude.

  The table’s chatter resumed around him, the murmurs of power filling the void.

  “…Nolan’s pulling trade numbers bigger than the capital again.” It was Malcolm, Askai noticed, who brought up the issue. His father was the kingpin in the construction sector. No major government contract had ever succeeded without their name on it.

  “The capital is only in name. Nolan has two-thirds of the nation’s population and ninety percent of its wealth. Even the Eastern Corridor routes are redirecting through Nolan now. The city is flourishing. I heard two new industrial corridors have been proposed just this quarter.” Sherry replied. Of course, the daughter of the Minister of Commerce knew just what was in the pipeline.

  “They say the Western Nolan is stirring up troubles, though,” Malcolm said, their voice dropping low with the thrill of discussing distant, manageable danger. “Gangs. Street scum. A real infestation.”

  Askai’s fork paused midway to his mouth. A whisper of cold crept up his spine.

  “They’re getting bolder,” another chimed in, leaning forward eagerly. “Saw news of a beating last week. A well-known associate of a reputed Real Estate Establishment was shot this week, and another trashed motel last night. The manager was barely alive. What’s more shocking? Zero police reports.”

  Steven flicked a swift, knowing glance toward Askai, a smirk twisting his lips. “They’ve always been around and they will continue to stay. They’re just the other side of the coin, after all.”

  It was too smooth, too polished—too . Hairs stood up on Askai’s nape.

  He studied Steven from the corner of his eye, trying to recall the exact lineage. Steven’s uncle. Someone had once said he was on Langley’s board. Connections to the undercity real estate. No wonder he talked like he wasn't afraid of the rot—he probably owned parts of it.

  Ruby suddenly turned to Askai, her movement interrupting his spiraling thoughts.

  “You grew up near the borders, right? You’d know better than anyone. Is it as bad as they say?” She blinked once, her smile tentative, trying for genuine curiosity. “I mean, if you don’t mind sharing.” she added, uncomfortably.

  A sudden, thick hush slid over the table. Askai froze, the pastry suddenly tasteless in his mouth. He hadn’t expected that—especially not from her.

  The air felt instantly colder, heavier. Every eye turned on him, stripping him bare. The outsider. The anomaly. The pariah who, by some inexplicable accident, sat among the silk-skinned royals and old-money wolves.

  Ruby’s smile faltered, seeing the effect of her careless question. Regret—quick and genuine—flashed behind her lashes. She hadn’t meant to throw him under the bus. But she had.

  Steven’s mouth twisted, ready to pounce, already framing some brutal, cutting remark about the smell of the gutter. Before he could speak, Vance stood up abruptly, his movement crisp and authoritative, snapping the tension in the room. “Time for class. Come on, Askai.”

  Askai blinked, jolted. He looked down. The time—he was late.

  He instinctively reached for his tray, intending to gather his few used dishes—but Vance caught his wrist mid-motion, his expression bland, his eyes narrowed in faint, aristocratic exasperation.

  Askai froze, realizing the faux pas. He, the guest, the outsider, was about to perform the work of a servant.

  Vance didn’t speak—just rolled his eyes, a flicker of pure disdain, and let go. That look—that silent, loaded dismissal—was all it took. Humiliation crawled up Askai’s neck, burning behind his ears. He trailed silently after Vance, feeling the table’s gaze linger on his back like sharp, probing knives.

  

  Outside the Lounge, he released a long, slow breath and muttered under it, barely loud enough for Vance to hear, “Could’ve just let me eat alone.”

  They walked through the quieter hallway now, the buzz of elite chatter left behind. For a moment, he thought they were heading to the lecture hall. Maybe he could just disappear into the morning crowd and pretend none of this happened.

  But then Vance spoke, his voice calm as a blade sliding in.

  “Come. We’ll attend the class from my suite today.”

  Askai stopped dead. He stared at the back of Vance’s perfectly tailored grey jacket.

  “…That shouldn’t be possible.”