Next morning, Askai trudged through the campus halls, the light too sharp, footsteps too loud, and the pounding in his head too relentless. His skull felt like it had been split open and stitched back together.

  The hangover was brutal—whatever the hell was in that bottle wasn't meant for a person alone. It was the kind of thing that knocked out your memory and good judgment in equal measure.

  He winced as fragments of the night before drifted back. A quiet corner, a bottle, a stranger with eyes like grey mist and a mouth that kissed too softly for someone so sharp-edged. Askai rubbed a hand down his face, groaning under his breath.

  What the hell had he been thinking?

  Flirting with someone at a party like that was a death wish and he thought he knew better than that. Attention never came free at parties like those. He wondered what he would do, if he saw him again. May the sweet Gods have mercy on him and let him not walk in his path again.

  The man was irresistible.

  As he neared the cafeteria, the smell of toast and watery coffee hit him—but something felt off. Just to the east of the main student building stood the on-campus elite dining hall, a sleek, private lounge-like setup with high glass walls and minimalist furniture. They didn't even shy away from calling it exclusive. The membership was not guided by money but family title.

  It usually buzzed with life around this time. All those manicured kids in tailored outfits, laughing too loud over too little, sipping smoothies with names longer than their essays. But now?

  Silent.

  Askai paused. It was nearly 11 a.m. on a weekday, and the place was practically deserted. No laughter, no clinking of overpriced cutlery. Even the servers at the counter were standing still, looking slightly confused behind the glass.

  His brows furrowed. All skipping classes? That wasn't their style. Those kids didn't just skip—at least not together.

  Gut uneasy, he kept walking toward the cafeteria, eyes squinted toward the glass windows that gleamed in the sunlight. Something definitely went down at the party last night. Recalling the fidgety and nervous glances, shaking hands of those serving drinks, the earlier ruckus in the seminar hall about Steve's party, joining the dots together wasn't so difficult.

  Staying clear off campus today was probably a smarter thing to do. He could afford to miss class one day.

  Once the storm blows over, he could return.

  Those dumbasses! Askai thought.

  Anyways, he had more pressing things to deal with. Like moving.

  He turned around and started walking toward the dormitory that was built across the college sports grounds. He was done with packing and finally had the cash he needed. He only had to find the Warden now and rattle him enough to allot Askai any room that was still unoccupied. He'd live in a closet if he had to. As long as it had a bed and didn't screw with his focus.

  The gravel crunched beneath his boots as he cut across the football ground, opting in for a shortcut. The air felt different here—like the campus itself was holding its breath. He moved quickly toward the residential block, a low concrete building bleached in white.

  But suddenly he froze.

  Just ahead, near the west fence that bordered the dorms, he saw a group of boys. Familiar ones. The so-called "servers" from last night's party. Kneeling.

  Great.

  There they were, heads down, knees in the dirt. Their matching white shirts were smudged, and some had tears near the collars. And standing in front of them—too far to make out clearly, but unmistakable in posture and clothes—were the Entitled Elites. Probably the same pack from Steve's circle. Their backs were too straight, too smug. Hands in pockets, heads tilted in that lazy predator way.

  Askai's pulse jumped.

  He cursed low, barely audible. He spun on his heel, already retreating. He couldn't be near this. Not now. Not ever. Whatever this was—it reeked of filthy power games and punishment. And if he got dragged into it...

  But just as he turned, his gaze brushed against one of the kneeling boys.

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  Shit.

  Eye contact.

  The boy's face was already swelling—left cheek purple, split lip. But even then, recognition flared in his eyes.

  Askai swore again, sharper this time, and walked faster. Too late to pretend he hadn't seen it. And now, someone else knew he had.

  The trouble he'd been avoiding? It had just seen him back.

  The moment Askai turned, the bruised boy—one of the so-called servers from last night—lifted a shaky arm and pointed straight at him.

  "That's him," the boy rasped. "He was there too."

  Askai stilled, eyes narrowing just slightly.

  Of course. What was he expecting?

  The air shifted like it always did before these things—suddenly quiet and loaded. A few of the elites turned to glance at him, and after a few tight-lipped exchanges, one of them lifted two fingers and flicked them toward himself. A summoning. The kind usually reserved for pets.

  Askai didn't roll his eyes. Didn't sigh. He just moved.

  Calmly.

  Steps easy and unhurried, hands in his pockets. Like he was walking into a half-scripted play he'd seen before. Because he had. Plenty of times.

  The elites stood in a loose arc, all shine and sharp cheekbones, clothed in designer indifference. They had the effortless cruelty of the privileged—born into plenty and had too much time. At the center was Steve, blond and put together in that over-styled way that tried too hard to look effortless.

  "You were at the party last night," Steve said, his voice dipped in mock casualness. A test.

  Askai gave a lazy nod. "Yeah."

  Steve's smirk twitched wider. "You remember the tray of drinks? The spiked ones?"

  Before Askai could reply, the bruised boy jumped in. "He gave me one," he said, voice rising. "Took it from the kitchen and handed it off."

  Askai raised a brow. The boy was lucky that Askai had turned over a new leaf in life, or else, his sorry ass would have been bashed into the ground by a very heavy baseball bat.

  "Nope." He said, with a slight tilt of his head. "You handed it to me. I dumped it in the sink. You were jittery as hell. Kinda obvious something was up."

  A ripple of discomfort passed through the crowd. One of the girls—red curls, sharp collarbones—stepped forward, frowning. She looked at him, a little different than the others, as if trying to place his face somewhere in her memories, suddenly making him uncomfortable. Then she shook her head and spoke up.

  "He is the one who sold me the smoke," she said. "I don't remember him offering me or my girls any drinks. Just passed by."

  Askai gave a single, careless shrug but was grateful for her intervention. "That's all I did. Smokes and small talk."

  The tension tightened like a drawn bow. Their faces told the rest—bloodshot eyes, damp foreheads, too-pale skin. Whatever had been in the drinks had wrecked them good. And now they were looking for a scapegoat.

  Steve's pride was bleeding out all over the grass, and he wasn't about to walk away without a scene. After all, he had been the one who had planned the party.

  "Kneel," he said, voice silked with that kind of threat that bored Askai more than scared him. "If you're innocent, let me judge you myself."

  Judge Me?

  Askai almost scoffed. This twat who did not know his ass from his mouth was going to judge him. The sheer depth of entitlement that these pompous asses indulged in, always amazed Askai.

  But he had a role to play - one that would suit a Middle Nolan's commoner.

  He stepped forward with the same cool disinterest, the same detached calm of someone who'd already done the math and didn't care about the result. He reminded himself that it was just one more year of pretending and then he would be off.

  But then—

  "That won't be necessary." The voice was deep and low, cutting clean through the heat of the moment.

  Heads turned and Askai halted in his steps. Because there he was - the stranger from the party.

  Only now, stripped of shadows and moonlight, he looked even more unreal. Tailored black shirt, collar undone just enough to be intentional. Charcoal trousers. Hands in pockets, eyes cool and dark and unreadable.

  The kind of calamity that didn't ask for attention but commanded it anyway.

  Steve stiffened, posture clicking into something obedient.

  "Vance. Hey, we were just—uh, there was a situation with the drinks last night. We think he might've—"

  "He didn't," the red-haired girl interrupted again but in a quieter voice, clearly annoyed with Steve but a little awry of the new arrival. She stepped forward with little more conviction in her action, than her words. "I saw. He wasn't part of it. He only offered smoke."

  Vance said nothing for a long beat. Just watched him with those unreadable eyes. There was a hardness around his mouth as he stared down Askai the length of his aristocratic nose. An accusation in that glare, when it slid to Askai.

  Now that there were no lingering shadows and their thoughts were clearer than before, the men assessed each other in the broad daylight. If Askai's eyes didn't deceive him, there might be some hidden anger in the accusatory glare. Problem was that people like him were too adept at hiding their feelings.

  He was no new face in Nolan. He was the oldest of their rich, aristocratic blood - one that made men like Steve wag their tail in his presence.

  Askai had committed a terrible blunder last night, falling into the orbit of a blazing sun. He could only hope to pretend that nothing happened between them, much like the Elites preferred whenever they dabbled in the filth of the Middle or the West.

  So he met his gaze without flinching. Didn't bother looking away. Whatever he thought he saw, Askai didn't offer a reaction. Didn't give him anything to hold onto.

  Vance didn't blink either. Didn't smile. For a moment, there was no one but them.

  Then suddenly Steve smiled, eyeing him through a side glance. A nervous, eager shift in his stance, like a mutt straightening up at the sound of its master's voice.

  Askai exhaled through his nose. That bastard would put the entire blame on him, if the circumstances allowed. He should've known better the second Steve had opened his mouth. This wasn't about the truth. It never was. The party must have been in Vance's honor, hosted by Steve. Now that was ruined and someone had to answer - or Steve would.

  Thanks to the kneeling dipshits behind him, he was on the radar of someone who didn't even need to speak to turn a room.

  Just Fantastic.