Marcus stepped back to the microphone like a man reclaiming stolen territory.
The crackle of the mic was the only sound for a heartbeat—then the auditorium exhaled as one, sinking back into that Pavlovian hush reserved for royalty. Two thousand spoiled princelings and princesses straightened spines, pocketed phones, and rembered who they were supposed to adore.
Phei had already retreated to the cheap seats, upper balcony, back row. Far from the Legacy clusterfuck down front. Far from the stage lights that loved to kiss Marcus’s cheekbones.
Close to—
Sniff.
He tilted his head half an inch.
The girl beside him—petite, brown hair tucked behind one ear, face vaguely familiar in that subtle way—was conducting the most discreet olfactoryinvestigation of her life. Not the full-on desperate huff so girls pulled when his scent hit like a chemical weapon.
Just... a polite, private inhale. Like she’d lit a forbidden candle in her dorm and didn’t want the RA to know she actually enjoyed it.
Phei didn’t call her out.
Just let one corner of his mouth curl.
She froze mid-breath. Busted. Cheeks went from neutral to "soone set my face on fire" in 0.8 seconds. Her eyes dropped to her lap like she’d suddenly discovered her own hands were the most fascinating objects in the known universe.
Cute. Pathetically, endearingly cute.
Down on stage, Marcus had rebuilt the mask. The hairline fracture Phei had punched into it? Spackled over with industrial-grade Heavenchild composure. Voice smooth as fresh asphalt, authority dialed to eleven.
"As I was saying before our... interruption." A micro-pause. A glance flicked upward—straight at Phei’s row, silver eyes cold enough to frost glass. "The Student Council has approved a new regulation regarding the Athletic Houses."
Murmurs spread like spilled champagne.
The Athletic Houses were holy ground at Ashford. Cathedrals of sweat and ego. Massive mansions dedicated to each sport: locker rooms that slled like money and Axe body spray, strategy rooms with screens bigger than most dorms, film-review theaters where coaches scread at slow-motion footage like it owed them rent.
And for generations, the sacred rule had been simple: Boys in the boys’ sections. Girls in the girls’ sections. Mixing? Only during official, chaperoned, clipboard-monitored events. General house mbers—cheerleaders, managers, water-boy-adjacent parasites—never even sniffed the inside of the real facilities.
Until tonight.
"Effective imdiately," Marcus continued, tone suggesting he was personally doing everyone a massive favor, "female students of that respective Athletic House will be granted full access to male Athletic House facilities, and vice versa."
The place detonated.
Boys traded looks that said "bro, we’re about to live in a porno." Girls exchanged glances ranging from "finally" to "I’m going to ruin soone’s life tonight."
Coaches looked like they’d just swallowed a live lemon.
Marcus kept going, unruffled. "This change addresses formal complaints from female athletes who felt excluded from full team integration—strategy sessions, culture, daily operations—despite being official mbers of co-ed support programs."
Nobody said the quiet part loud.
But everyone knew the truth. Marcus practically ran this school. Made the rules. Shaped the policies. The Student Council was his instrunt, and whatever he decided beca law. Only when things went too far—when the Heavenchild influence threatened to overshadow the institution itself and it’s core foundation rules—did the Ashfords step in and remind Paradise who actually owned the academy.
But that was rare. Most of the ti, the undisputed prince got whatever he wanted.
They didn’t feel involved, Phei thought, fighting the urge to laugh out loud. They didn’t feel involved because they weren’t allowed into the buildings where boys got dressed.
They didn’t feel "involved" because they weren’t allowed to wander into rooms where boys stripped, showered, walked around with towels slung low on hips, laughed about dick jokes, changed into compression shorts that left nothing to the imagination.
"Involved." Right.
Phei felt the laugh bubbling up before he could murder it. Low. Private. Shoulders shaking just enough to make the seat creak.
The girl next to him shot him a startled sideways glance.
"Sothing funny?" she whispered.
Phei leaned in half an inch—close enough that his breath brushed her ear. "They just handed every hormonal disaster in this school a co-ed locker-room key and called it feminism. And they’re pretending it’s about inclusion."
Her eyes went wide. Then—slowly, deliciously—a grin cracked across her face like dawn over a cri scene.
"Oh," she breathed. "Oh my god, you’re actually right."
"It’s basically a mansion with no rules. Full access. Late-night strategy sessions. ’Team bonding’ that nobody’s supervising. Steam rooms. Showers. Changing areas." He shook his head, still smiling. "Either the council is staffed by naive eunuchs who do not see the ulterior motive behind this... or soone up there is desperatelytrying to get laid."
She actually giggled—hand clapped over her mouth like she’d committed treason.
On stage, Marcus was still droning. Respect. Professionalism. Appropriate boundaries. Maintaining the integrity of the athletic program while in the Athletic Houses, despite the exciting new opportunities for collaboration.
Translation: Please pretend you’re not going to fuck in the equipnt closet. The adults need plausible deniability.
But Marcus?
Marcus looked... restored.
The announcent had done its job. He’d handed out a privilege like a benevolent emperor tossing bread to the mob. Crown back on. Halo polished. Control reasserted.
The crowd was nodding already. Grinning. Planning. The little drama Phei had staged on stage? Already fading into background noise. They were returning to default programming: worship the golden boy. Praise the prince. Thank heaven for its chosen.
Phei watched it all with the sa quiet, amused detachnt he’d once used to watch ants crawl over a dead bird.
Enjoy it, Phei thought, the words tasting like copper and victory. Tomorrow I peel another strip of skin from your perfect little life, Marcus Heavenchild. Sothing that’ll sting longer than a bruised ego and leave a scar no amount of Legacy money can laser away.
"Um."
The little bird beside him chirped again. Cheeks still carrying yesterday’s blush, eyes still darting to him like a shoplifter checking for caras.
"Yes?" Phei didn’t bother turning fully. Let her feel the weight of how little effort she was worth.
"I just—" Swallow. Fidget. Restart. "Tomorrow. The basketball challenge."
"What about it?"
"You’re going to win."
Not a hope. A fucking decree handed down from on high. She said it with the serene arrogance of soone who’d already bet her virtue on the outco.
"I know you will."
Phei arched a brow, slow, deliberate, the way a predator acknowledges the lamb is finally paying attention. "You seem confident."
"I am." Brown eyes finally t his—soft, warm, tragically sincere. "And when you do... when you’re on the team officially..." Lip bite. Courage gathering like storm clouds over a funeral. "...Can I be in charge of your locker?"
He let the silence stretch just long enough to make her squirm. "My locker?"
"And your attire. Your kits. Cleaning them, organizing them, making sure everything’s ready before gas and practices." The words fell out in a frantic waterfall, rehearsed to death in front of so sad bedroom mirror. "I could handle your equipnt too—making sure your shoes are broken in properly, your jersey’s always pressed, your—your everything. Whatever you need."
She was trembling with the holy fervor of the newly converted. Devotion looked good on her. Pathetic, but good.
"I know it sounds weird," she tacked on, rapid-fire panic, "but I’m good at organizing things. Really good. And I want to help. I want to be useful to you."
Phei finally gave her the full weight of his attention. Catalogued her the way a collector examines a new specin.
Wavy brown hair that scread I tried to look effortless and mostly succeeded. Soft features that would bruise beautifully under the right pressure. Freckles she’d attempted to conceal like shaful little secrets.
Petite—barely tall enough to reach his cock if she knelt on tiptoe. And those eyes. Christ. Looking at him like he was the first real thing she’d ever seen.
mory clicked, sharp as a switchblade flicking open.
Maybe his transformation after the molting had brought sharper mory with it. Maybe it was just proximity of being close to her.
Maya’s voice in his head, amused: "There was this freshman girl crying in the hallway... You stopped. You didn’t say anything, but you stopped and handed her a tissue..."
Back then he’d barely registered her. Just another smudge in the background of his old, worthless existence. Now? The upgrade had turned his mory into a weapon. Recognition hit like a fist to the solar plexus.
This was her.
*****
A/N:Hey everyone... First off—I ssed up yesterday. The update had a repeated Chapter, and I know so of you bought it thinking it was new content. That’s on . I’m genuinely sorry.
For those affected: I see you, and I appreciate your patience more than you know. We’re still in Volu One. The story continues. The dragon keeps rising.
Thank you for sticking with through the hiccups. Your support ans everything.
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