Vance left, his departure a powerful dismissal that left the dorm room feeling cold and somehow exposed. Askai cleaned up the food scraps and the dirty utensils, the simple physical act a necessity to ground himself. Only after the room was returned to its sparse order did he let out a long, shuddering breath and collapse backward onto his bed, the springs groaning in protest.

Vance's presence today was something Askai hadn't been prepared for—something he shouldn't have been prepared for. He had seen enough East End heirs toy with West End's belles, never offering anything beyond a gilded cage. At best, they kept the girls tucked away in some modest Middle Nolan apartment, visiting when they wished, loving them only at their own convenience.

To the East, anything born of the West was contamination—filth with a pulse. And even if an East-bred gentleman swore his undying devotion to a West wildling, it was always whispered in the dark. Never flaunted. Never acknowledged. The punishment for crossing that line could be far more devastating than death.

So Askai never imagined that the spark of intrigue he held—whatever dangerous curiosity he had ignited—could pull someone like Vance Regale all the way to his doorstep.

Vance had already admitted he suspected Askai's origins. He had traced his address to Middle Nolan, he'd said it with quiet certainty—yet Askai still couldn't understand how. Uncle Tommie had buried Kai so thoroughly that even the rats in West Nolan had forgotten the name. Askai had been rewritten from scratch: new records, new identity, new future. Kai had died the night his childhood had.

Only Jordan remembered who he truly was. Only Jordan could. And Jordan would sooner bleed out in a gutter than allow Askai's past to surface.

Still Vance found the loose ends. And more dangerously—He still followed.

Askai didn't know what was turning in that brilliant, volatile mind, nor what motive pulled a man of Vance's stature toward someone like him. But the gesture—the attention—struck a quiet, treacherous chord deep inside Askai. One he thought he had long since cauterized.

Was he getting soft?
Careless?
Naïve?

He couldn't tell anymore.

Jordan might have been right. These polished towers, these clean sidewalks, these glass fortresses and their manicured dream-gardens—they created the illusion of safety far too easily. They dulled your senses, softened your spine, made you believe you could be someone new without paying the price for the old.

Maybe this place was wearing down his guard.

Jordan, propped up against the opposite bunk, his face a landscape of fading bruises, raised an eyebrow, interrupting his thoughts.

"What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Askai? The elite doesn't usually follow you back to the gutters."

Askai covered his eyes with an arm.

"I don't know. I was running short on cash—desperate, okay?—and I heard of this rich-ass party. I thought I would swing by, sell some smoke, make some quick money, and disappear. Should never have done it."

He paused, the memory of that night a sharp burn of shame and adrenaline. "It turned out to be Vance's welcome party. He returned from abroad or something. And I was drunk, and I… I fucking kissed him. Then I ran like hell when I finally realized where I was."

He lowered his arm to stare at the chipped ceiling, his voice flat. "Next thing I know, I'm on his radar. He's calling me in for party setups, for these charity games. Keeps calling me a member of his crew like I signed a damn contract."

Jordan looked profoundly uncomfortable. "Always had a knack for charming the wrong sort, Kai."

"Who's talking? Your gilded lover is still haunting the streets!" Askai retorted, a bitter edge to his voice.

Jordan merely shrugged, unrepentant.

Askai turned his head. "Have you heard anything else about him? Vance Regale?"

Jordan rubbed his jaw, frowning as he accessed his mental database of street whispers. "I already told you what I found out then. I used to run errands for some East End dorks, way back. I've heard names, faces, gossip. But him? I was surprised I hadn't ever heard about him. Legacy brats don't just appear out of thin air but he did. Maybe because he had been away for so long…."

"Steven threw him a welcome party," Askai added, testing the facts. "Ruby's always hanging around too- the daughter of Domenico Conti. Do any of those names help?"

Jordan shook his head, his expression soured. "It's strange. All the Regale heirs—the true golden boys—go through this university, the local campus. It's like a rite of passage for them, training for the throne. But Vance was educated abroad, entirely off the grid. He graduated from some Foreign University and then stayed on. Now, he suddenly appeared and applied for an Advanced Course in Business Studies at Nolan University. Doesn't add up really. He must be what - twenty nine, thirty?"

Askai sat up slightly, a strange feeling settling in his stomach. "You think he was sent away? To hide something?"

Jordan nodded, his face grim. "It's never for anything good, Askai. Rich scions don't just get packed off to clean-up campuses unless something ugly went down. Something that needed burying. Whatever it was, Askai, you don't want to be caught in the crossfire. Don't antagonize him. Don't get involved. He is too mature for all of us."

Askai nodded slowly. He had already done the maths and arrived at a similar conclusion. But things were hardly going his way.

He pushed himself to sit fully upright, determination hardening his features. There were still things he needed to get done.

"First things first—your problem. We are out of time. You can't keep hiding in here. Dorm policies aside, you're a sitting duck for those bastards. They targeted you once; they will do it again, harder and faster."

He stood and crossed the room, reaching beneath his bed frame. From the shadows, he pulled out an old, dented baseball bat, the wood dark and scarred. He tested the familiar, heavy grip—a ghost of comfort—and the noise it made was a soft, dangerous thump.

Jordan's eyes narrowed, a predatory glint returning to their depths. "What are you thinking?"

"That we've been reacting - too slow. Playing defense. Hiding," Askai said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, yet ringing with lethal intent. "Maybe it's time to be the ones no one expects to show up."

Jordan tilted his head, a genuine, vicious grin tugging at his lips despite the bruises. "You comfortable with that, Kai? Hadn't you taken an oath to stay away from the violence? You are dead to that world, remember?"

Askai gave a short, sharp nod, his eyes suddenly old. "Oaths and Morals are luxuries we can't afford. I understand that now. Running from trouble just brings it home harder. It's time I face it. Head-on. And this time, we will make sure none of that shit follows me back here. Kai is dead. He would remain so. No one lives to tell the tale. This is Askai's world now—and he fights to keep it."

For a long moment, the two stared at each other—memories unspoken, decades of shared survival passing between them. Then Jordan laughed, quiet and rasping, the sound of pure, reckless freedom. "Remember that night at Docks End? You with a rusty wrench, me with a frying pan?"

Askai snorted, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "We were insane. Absolute maniacs."

"We were alive."

They exchanged grins—boys made hard by life, but not broken. Not yet.

Jordan slid off the bed, favoring his bad shoulder, and reached for the smaller, makeshift bat Askai kept as backup—a length of thick, wrapped pipe.

They stepped out the door together, a little older, a little wiser, and just reckless enough to make it count.