Days passed. Askai's life slipped back into its usual rhythm—which was to say, back into the grind. The hustle. He was scraping by with the kind of determination that only desperation could breed.

Two more semesters of grinding through this madness, and it would finally be over. No more late nights juggling lectures and side hustles, no more pretending he belonged among people who'd never scraped their knees on concrete. Soon, instead of bleeding money, he'd be making it.

But not all debts could be cleared with cash. Some were etched in memory—owed in broken promises. His past didn't haunt him so much as it followed, heavy and constant, like a shadow he couldn't shake. It filled his chest with a strange ache—part longing, part dread. As if going back would burn him, but forgetting it would kill him slower.

He shook his head as if shaking away those dreadful thoughts.

He looked around his dorm that definitely did not turn out to be cheap. Nothing on this side of campus ever was. He'd still managed to get a twin-sharing room at an affordable rent, but one look at the rust-stained sink, cracked window, and the exposed wiring above the second bed had made it painfully clear why he had no roommate.

Even the rats had standards.

A borrowed toolkit, a few tutorial videos, and some pocket-change purchases later, he patched what he could, jerry-rigged the rest, and finally got the place looking... decent. Respectable, even. Neat in a way that suggested someone was trying—desperately—to keep things together.

Now came the harder part: cash. His funds were down to fumes. If something didn't give soon—campus job, nearby café, anything—he'd be choosing between food and classes. Again.

Still, the most dangerous thing in Askai's world wasn't poverty.

It was memory.

He hadn't forgotten about Vance. Just because the man hadn't resurfaced didn't mean he was gone. That class of people didn't forget. It circled, it observed, and it struck when you were softest. Askai had learned that early. He hadn't seen Vance since that day, but the memory still walked beside him, leaving him cold in his wake.

What unsettled him more was how quickly Vance became legend.

After the party, his name echoed through the campus like a storm warning. The elites had a new center of gravity, and everyone adjusted their orbits accordingly. Whispers turned to conversations. Conversations turned to awe. Even the professors walked lighter around the name.

Vance Regale. The prodigal son of the Regale conglomerate. Crown of the Elites.

His grandfather—an aging but razor-sharp Home Minister—had suffered what the news politely labeled a minor accident. But nothing was ever minor in the Regale dynasty. 

And who received the first frantic call home?

Not the eldest heir but the youngest grandchild—the one they kept hidden like a whisper of danger.

Vance Regale.

Askai's lips curled in a humorless smirk. It was laughable to believe the prodigal heir had returned out of affection—family love in the East was as transactional as the stock exchange. 

No. Vance wasn't back to play nurse to that cunning old man.

He had come back to manipulate the dying embers of a legacy and bend them into a weapon. Askai knew the taste of power-hungry ambition—he had grown up choking on its fumes.

He pictured Vance again, this time with the cold clarity survival had beaten into him. The man did not belong among the giggling socialites and clueless trust-fund heirs parading through Nolan University's hallways. 

If Askai hadn't spent years surviving under the very shadows that shaped men like him, he might have believed the stupid brochure lies—that Vance had returned for an advanced business course… or some polished PR excuse tailored to look harmless.

But Askai knew better.

In their world, the sons of dynasties did not hide behind textbooks.They were groomed to own everything those textbooks preached.

The Regales. The Conti. The Salvatores.

These families were the pulse beneath Nolan's glittering façade. Their claws sank deep even into Kazan—the neighbouring city governed by ruins, where the streets themselves were forged from blood and rulebooks were burned before the ink dried.

Damn, something fishy was going on here but he had been away from the streets for so long. Otherwise, he would have had his answers by now. Jordans had scavenged for him some information on his potential tormentor but it was too less to be of any defence value if he ever came to need it - which he might soon.

For past days, he had heard whispers about him in the corridors. Even since his return, Vance had been making a lot of public appearances. Hosting charity events, donating to Town Halls. He even led a campaign to clean Lake Strauss which the conglomerates that his friends own, had a fair share in eutrophying.

Askai scoffed. 

They were projecting Vance into an image of a boy-next-door. Him. An Alpha wolf. Someone who had the kind of presence that could rewrite a room. A single glance and men like Steve folded in on themselves.

He sighed. He was living like a man waiting. For the axe. For the whip. For whatever brand of judgment Vance felt like delivering when the mood struck. If the baseball bat was any indication, a few broken ribs were a reasonable outcome. As long as they were mendable at the public hospital, it was manageable. Bones healed. Reputation didn't.

Askai had made his peace with it.

He wouldn't grovel. That made the bullies like him tick. He'd kneel. He'd endure. If it meant getting out of Vance Regale's crosshairs with nothing more than a limp and a small hospital bill. That was mercy enough.

A wave of uneasiness washed over him as he remembered Steve quaking in his boots. He just hoped, against all instincts, that the man had forgotten his existence.

Because being remembered?

That would be so much worse.