3:27 PM
The parking lot behind Ashford Elite Academy had given up any pretense of being a place to park overpriced cars and fully embraced its true calling: a cut-rate Roman colosseum for rich kids with too much allowance and not enough therapy.
Students ringed the perimeter three and four deep in spots, a writhing wall of blazers and entitlement, phones hoisted like torches at a witch-burning. Everyone shoving, elbowing, climbing onto hoods for that perfect viral angle—because nothing said "I matter" like filming some poor bastard's humiliation in 4K.
Phei stood at the edge of the circus, surveying the madness, and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
All this turnout.
For him.
The walking charity receipt.
A week ago, these same vultures wouldn't have crossed the street to piss on him if he was on fire, burning alive.
