The sky outside the dorm window was a mess of dull grey clouds. Rain tapped gently on the glass, falling in that lazy way storms sometimes do. 

Askai sat still in his chair. He stared out, not really looking at anything—just letting the storm outside match the quiet pressure building in his mind.

Behind him, the lecture room buzzed with voices.

"…what if we unplug the speakers just before it starts? Like, rip out the aux, old-school style."

"That won't do shit. They'll just laugh and plug in another one. You wanna humiliate them, Think!"

"Okay, what if we spike the punch with laxatives? Real ones, prescription grade."

"Jesus. That's a lawsuit waiting to happen."

"So? Let him sue. We haven't got anything for them to take anyway."

The boy who said that got a few chuckles, but none of it held weight. They had plenty to be taken away, after all.

The boys had been planning about stirring trouble in a party which was to be thrown by one of the Elites where people like Askai and them were no more than waiters in casuals. 

Elites of the East End...

Askai knew too well that they were not to be messed with. For god sake, to maintain their purity and elevated status, they had forged a wall so rigid between the West and the East Nolan that even birds from the West did not dare shit in East.

He leaned back, folding his arms. His breath fogged the window faintly, then vanished. He had more pressing matters to attend to. Unlike the nouveau rich kids planning the sabotage, he had actual problems to deal with.

He'd been thinking about moving to campus for weeks. The numbers didn't lie. Askai had been living off his savings for the past three years. He had taken up odd part-time jobs to survive at Nolan University but they were simply not enough. He had been dipping into his savings for far too long and now the dreaded day had finally come. 

He was left with nothing.

Rent with Jordan was bleeding him dry—and Askai had been delaying his share of payments a lot. Jordan had been shouldering the extra burden for a while now but Askai could not bear to do that to him. He knew that Jordan had been having a tough time on the streets he had left him to rot in.

Jordan needed a roommate who could pay and Askai needed a cheap ass place to crash at, while struggling for his degree in law. Campus housing was such a perfect candidate. 

It wasn't glamorous. A cot, maybe a shelf. But it was close to the library, and it came with air-conditioning. It was cheaper, too. He'd have more time to study. More space to think.

Like about the lunch prices that had gone up again. Cafeteria lines were long and always ended in disappointment. His evening job paid minimum and the commute was eating into his schedule. He'd missed two classes this week. Property Law and Torts. He couldn't afford to keep slipping.

Law school wasn't for the soft or the scattered but Askai had made up his mind to see it through. He had wagered a lot on this.

Laughter cut through his thoughts, the sharp, embarrassed kind.

"…and then she tipped me. Like I was one of the waitstaff. Fucking five bucks."

Askai didn't turn. Didn't blink. Just let the words settle.

Another voice jumped in:
"They do it on purpose, man. That whole party was a setup. They invite us so it looks diverse, and then they hand us trays like it's a coincidence."

"They're smart about it. Always plausible deniability."

"And you can't push back. My mom teaches at their cousin's prep school. One complaint and she's on review."

"My dad's contract just got renewed by Langley. Guess who sits on that board? Steve's uncle."

"So we just take it?"

"What choice do we have?"

Askai finally turned from the window. His voice cut through the static of the room—cool, measured, and completely out of sync with the vibe.

"It pays?"

Silence.

Everyone looked at him. A few blinked, unsure if he was mocking the other boy or not.

"…Yeah," the boy said finally, a little defensive. "They, uh… they tipped me. Cash."

Askai nodded once. Then stood, smooth and silent like a decision already made.

"Text me the address. I'll go."

He didn't wait for the reaction. He wasn't invited. He knew that. But it didn't matter.

He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, slipped his phone into his pocket, and stepped into the hall.

There were things to pack. He left without hearing what the boys had said or what they said later. 

He was gone.

***

The mansion stood like a quiet beast at the end of a curved driveway, nestled behind wrought-iron gates and manicured hedges. It was the kind of house that didn't need to prove itself-its size, its silence, its sheer presence spoke volumes. Askai stepped out of the cab, the gravel crunching under his boots as the gate closed behind him with a heavy metallic finality.

This was East End.

Where the Nolan city's elite lived - the Old Money, the Ruling Class of Nolan.  

Not the new-money types with flashy cars and rented charm, but the old families-the ones whose names were etched into buildings, college halls, and courtrooms. These were the people who could make or break futures with a nod. Their power wasn't loud. It whispered and everyone listened.

Askai wasn't a stranger here. He was born and bred on the West side of Nolan but had known very closely what lived behind these walls-old money and colder hearts. These were the black-blooded rulers who smiled at fundraisers and signed off on the kind of deals that swallowed entire neighborhoods.

He had played their games once - not long ago. Smiled when he needed to, killed when he had to, biting down on his pride like a bullet. But when the dust cleared, he hadn't left empty-handed. 

He knew the rules then, he knew the rules now. Knew how to move quietly through the rot and leave with something worth keeping.

Tonight, he was back for a much smaller game, though just for hours. His desperation had finally worn down his resolve to never take a recourse to his past life. He had left that hell for good.

He wore a navy blue sweater and black pants-clean, sharp, quiet. A new pair. Bought not for style, but to avoid standing out. He walked with his hands in his pockets, expression unreadable, down the side path toward the back of the house. He knew who he would find at the front.

The pool glowed under soft lights, steam curling off its surface like breath. Laughter echoed across the yard-bright, careless, and just a little cruel. Boys in designer sneakers pushed each other toward the water and girls with champagne flutes leaned back on loungers like they owned the world. 

Maybe they did.

Askai passed by without a word. The patio doors were wide open ahead of him, and he stepped into the hall. It was massive. A room that belonged in a different century. Antique oil paintings adorned the walls, porcelain vases the size of small children stood in corners like forgotten sentinels. Mahogany furniture too expensive to sit on had been pushed aside to make room for kegs and bass lines.

The past clashed with the present here. Old money decor against the rowdy party chaos.

Someone handed him a red cup without asking. He took it, nodded, and kept walking.

He let his eyes roam the chaotic sprawl of bodies and sound, scanning it -not for anyone in particular, but for a corner, where he could fit without drawing attention. 

This was when he first noticed them. Men in crisp black tux, moving about in the shadows with planned, decisive steps. How he wished he had not dismissed them then as some regular security guards.

A hand tapped his arm and he turned. It was one of the boys from earlier. The same wiry kid who'd talked too big in the classroom and still looked like he wasn't sure if he belonged here. He shoved a tray into Askai's hands with too much force for someone trying to act casual.

The kid's eyes darted everywhere-fast and nervous, like a rabbit that had just remembered the hawks overhead.

"Good luck," he muttered under his breath, voice low enough to vanish into the music. "We're giving it to them tonight."

Askai raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He didn't remember much of the plan the boy had rambled about earlier, mostly because he hadn't been listening. But he knew one thing-these guys talked more than they thought.

And they rarely knew when to shut up.

He gave a slow, lazy nod. Took the tray with one hand. Walked off. And two minutes later, he dumped it into the sink with a soft clatter, with an unimpressed eye roll.

He wasn't going to be a part of their stupid games.

The kitchen emptied out behind him. He slipped back into the swell of the crowd, threading between limbs and half-hugs. Then he spotted a cluster of boys near the back wall. Loud. Laughing too hard. Definitely drunk.

He pulled out his cigarette box, flipped the lid open with one hand like muscle memory, and slipped one between his lips. He wasn't even planning to light it-it was just the cue. Sure enough, as he passed them, one of the boys caught sight and waved him over.

"Hey! You got more of those?"

Askai turned on a dime, all charm and warmth now, like a coin flipped clean. He walked up with the easy grace of someone who knew how to read a room, offered the box without a word. None of them checked the brand. No one ever did when they were this far gone.

They snatched up smokes like candy, already talking over each other, stumbling to find lighters.

A hand slipped into his. Quick, casual. A folded bill passed like a secret. Askai barely looked. He didn't need to. The boy who passed hadn't looked either. That is how it was for this part of the city.

A hundred bucks.

Askai was sure the man hadn’t even noticed. He slid it into his pocket with a nod and a tight smile. Then walked away without a backward glance.

Another group near the balcony. Laughing, leaning too far over the railing. Another opportunity.

Just a few more. That was all he needed. Enough to cover his moving cost and meals for the next couple of weeks.

Just an hour more, he promised himself then he would walk away like he never even came here.

Askai moved from group to group with practiced ease, the rhythm of it coming back to him like muscle memory. A joke here, a smile there, always just present enough to be forgettable once he was gone.

And the bills kept slipping into his palm—crumpled twenties, folded fifties, even another hundred tucked between two fingers.

By the time he ducked into the hallway, his pockets were heavier than they'd been in weeks. He leaned against the wall, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Fingers slipped into his pocket, brushing over the soft edges of money that still felt strange in his hand—strange in the way something familiar starts to feel after you've tried to forget it.

Easy money.

He had forgotten what it felt like. How fast it came when you were willing to do the wrong thing but wear the right smile and say little.

Askai rubbed a thumb over the bills, the guilt blooming slow in his chest. He'd sworn off this kind of thing three years ago. Promised himself he wouldn't go back down that path, they had sacrificed so much to leave. 

But law school didn't care about promises. Life didn't either.

He could use a drink. Just one. Then he'd leave. Before the weight of the night started to feel like old chains again. He walked toward the bar, where a familiar face was pouring shots into plastic cups with an unsteady hand. One of the dorm boys. Probably the same kid who'd handed him the tray earlier, now red-faced and sweating under the light.

Askai paused. Watched him fumble a bottle, smile too wide.

He didn't want any of that.

Askai turned away without a word. Instead, he slipped into the kitchen, opened the fridge like he lived there, and pulled out a random bottle—something foreign, dark glass, heavy in the hand. He didn't care about the label. Just that it was cold.

He found a corner near the back door—quiet, dim, half-shadowed behind an antique cabinet no one had moved for years. His corner now. He leaned back and took a slow sip straight from the bottle, letting the bitterness spread on his tongue like static.

That was when the sound shifted.

At first, he ignored it—just another ripple in the night's chaos. Then it sharpened, voices cutting through the bass like glass through fabric.

"He's here."

"No way. Steve wasn't lying."

"Tomorrow's headline writes itself."