By the end of lunch, Phei's worst apprehensions hadn't merely materialised—they'd arrived in full regalia, trumpets blaring, dragging a parade of apocalyptic clowns behind them and billing him for emotional damages.
It had begun with deceptive innocence.
He entered the cafeteria radiating the kind of quiet omnipotence usually reserved for minor deities who'd just discovered compound interest and tax loopholes; Spine straight. Expression neutral. Blazer draped over one arm like a conquered standard.
He looked less like a student and more like a final boss who'd taken a wrong turn and wandered into the tutorial zone.
The lunch queue parted around him with instinctive deference.
He withdrew the obsidian-black card Melissa had given him—sleek, heavy, the financial equivalent of a firing squad—and purchased an actual meal. Protein that had once possessed a soul. Vegetables that hadn't been boiled into compliance.
