Royal Von High was the stuff of legend, a school every child dreamt of and one of the most luxurious educational institutions in the UK. With tuition fees high enough to stagger a small country, it was the cherished reality of every millionaire's child and the distant, impossible fantasy of the poor.
Students, the privileged elite, were scattered across the impeccably manicured grounds—gardens, playing fields, bleachers, and hallways. They were a vision in their uniform: purple suits, a distinguishing golden badge depicting a white horse and rider, and the gender-specific bottom wear—black and white checked flay knee-length skirts for the girls, paired with heels of any colour, and plain black trousers with sleek sneakers for the boys.
A young man, Ryan Callister, moved through the marble-tiled main hallway. With a mop of brown curly hair, a button nose, striking blue eyes, and pink, sensitive lips, his appearance was undeniably delicate. But his current demeanor was anything but relaxed; it was a study in coiled tension.
As he walked, a hushed wave followed him. Students whispered the tale of the previous night: how he—Ryan—had ruined the lavish welcoming party of the school's unofficial king, Uriel, with a disastrous, ill-conceived prank, ending the night in chaos.
Ryan let out a small, ragged breath as he finally reached his locker. One piece. I made it. He felt a momentary relief, believing he had escaped the most critical scrutiny, but the whispers behind him suddenly grew into an undeniable, hostile hum. Fear, cold and sharp, spread through him, causing his hand to hover over the digital keypad.
He wished, desperately, that he could simply dematerialize and avoid the confrontation, but that was impossible. Uriel was a chronic, meticulous grudge-bearer, and avoidance was not an option when his revenge was on the line.
"Come on, sore loser! Open it already! Stop keeping us waiting!" A blonde girl named Tasha jeered mockingly from the growing crowd.
"He's stalling! Let's go, bitch! Open the damn thing!" another guy, burly and loud, shouted. "Open it! Open it! Open it!" The chant spread, fueled by the students eager for spectacle.
Ryan felt the full, crushing weight of their anticipation. He knew the crowd wouldn't disperse; more students were arriving every second, drawn by the noise. He typed his password with a shaky hand, and the locker opened with a soft, barely audible click.
He pulled the door open, bracing himself. There it was—the traditional warning sign system of the school's hierarchy. The sight of a red card, or worse, the call of death- a telephone that rang, it's shrill ringing tone an open signal to the downfall of anyone who behold it, would signal his inevitable punishment. But instead...
It was empty.
No red card. No green card signaling safety, either and no telephone. Just textbooks and a half-eaten energy bar.
A cautious smile stretched across his lips. Relief was a physical jolt. Perhaps, after the forced humiliation of yesterday—licking spilled cake off Uriel's pristine white shoe and chugging three warm beers—he was finally, miraculously, free.
He turned, the sudden confidence making him feel taller than his 5'6" frame, and faced the mob.
"Go away," Ryan said, his voice surprisingly steady. "The fun's over. The show isn't today."
The crowd began to disperse, disappointed but compliant, though not without a few final acts of defiance. A paper airplane hit him in the shoulder. A couple of students flipped him off.
"Dude, are you serious?" one guy complained to his friend, walking away. "I missed my chance to beat up the school's very top student? Straight A+s and we don't get to touch him?"
"Calm down, pal," his friend replied, throwing an arm over his shoulder. "There's gonna be plenty of time to deal with that femboy."
Yes, this was Ryan Callister. Straight A+s, academic honour student, and the top of his class. His success was undeniable, but his physique was not built for the rough-and-tumble school environment. Thin and unapologetically feminine, he spent most of his time isolated in the sanctuary of the library, only leaving for class.
This habit earned him a string of labels: 'Loner by the Library,' 'Cali Freak,' and the persistent 'Femboy.' He didn't mind the nicknames, or at least, he pretended not to.
But yesterday, a momentary lapse of judgment—a desperate, foolish craving to be accepted by the "cooler kids" who'd invited him—had led him astray. The plan was a simple, attention-grabbing prank targeting a girl named Tasha, but fate, or perhaps gravity, had other plans.
The disastrous prank landed directly on Uriel.
Uriel: the school's epitome of cool. White hair, unsettlingly green eyes, plump pink lips, well-sculpted abs, and a staggering, intimidating height of 6'11". His skin was pale, almost translucent, giving him a pristine, untouchable glow.
And for every damn reason, Uriel was not happy.
Ryan quickly stowed his books. He was heading for his first class when the low, powerful thrum began. It grew rapidly, shaking the glass and rattling the marble beneath his feet—the unmistakable roar of heavy rotor blades. Outside, every head craned skyward as a sleek, black military-grade helicopter descended onto the main field.
The sight instantly fractured the hallway's tension. The moment the aircraft touched down, a girl burst back inside, her voice a high-pitched, ecstatic shriek that cut through the noise: "The King is here! Uriel is here!"
A human tide surged past Ryan, desperate to witness the spectacle. No one dared miss the arrival of Royal Von High's unofficial royalty.
Ryan, too, was mesmerized, though fear kept him from getting close. He followed the crowd, positioning himself behind a thick pillar, seeking anonymity while keeping the scene in view.
The massive helicopter hatch opened. A double line of black-suited security guards instantly formed, and as three figures began to walk, their entrance was marked by a synchronized, echoing salute: three sharp gunshots fired into the empty air.
Leading the trio was Uriel, the son of the world's second trillionaire. He was the picture of pristine, untouchable power. Dressed not in the school uniform but in a bespoke black suit adorned with intricate golden pins, he moved with the contained menace of a predator. At a towering six-foot-eleven and eighteen years old, with an athlete's build, his features were unnervingly aristocratic—a sharply chiseled chin accentuating his Arabic heritage, and a thick mop of white hair pulled into a neat, low ponytail. His eyes, an electrifying emerald green, scanned the crowds, giving the impression that he wasn't looking at students, but surveying a territory he owned. Though he was the obsession of every girl on campus, Uriel was known as the group's 'monk'—his silence only amplifying his commanding and chilling aura.
Flanking the King were the other two figures, forming the notorious Z3 group.
To Uriel's right was Hugo Arnold, at nineteen years old. The son of supermodel tycoons, Hugo possessed the classic, cold beauty of a Greek statue: brown eyes, a perfectly defined nose, and thin pink lips. At six-foot-five with an athletic frame, he had the quiet, watchful intensity of a viper. Unlike the others, he rejected formality, opting for a blue baggy top and trousers that gave him a deliberate, dangerous bad-boy edge.
On Uriel's left was Zack Oswald, also eighteen, and the heir to the most powerful Italian mafia family. Zack was the group's known rogue element. His long, shoulder-length red hair was slicked back into a tight ponytail, highlighting his sharp jaw and beautiful Caucasian features. His vibrant blue eyes and prominent Italian heritage gave him a striking look. Zack was the resident all-time playboy—a Casanova who pursued any woman he deemed pretty and experienced, with a specific, notorious preference for older women.
As the three walked, the entire student body obediently cleaved into two, creating a vast, empty corridor through which the Zeal Boys advanced toward the school's entrance.
Ryan watched from his shadowed alcove, his breath hitching tightly in his throat. He felt not just fear, but a visceral understanding that this was more than a popular clique. This was a private military force, and he, Ryan Callister, the top student and accidental offender, was directly in their crosshairs. The sheer intensity of Uriel's arrival confirmed one terrifying truth: his punishment was not over; it was only just beginning.
The crowd pressed in, a suffocating wall of bodies, shoving and crushing against Ryan. He tried desperately to disappear behind a group of taller students, a futile attempt to evade the kingpins' wrath. Suddenly, a violent shove from behind propelled him forward. He stumbled, scattering students, and landed hard on his knees right before Uriel's sleek, polished shoes.
A collective gasp of horror tore through the hall, echoing briefly before absolute silence fell at Uriel's raised hand. Ryan's breath seized in his chest, heavy and tight. He snapped out of his daze only when Uriel's shoe nudged his chin, lifting his gaze to meet a pair of cruel emerald eyes.
"Well, well, well," Uriel's voice was a mocking purr. "Isn't it Ryan, the fucking Cali-freak. A pro shoe-shiner, are we?" He punctuated the jibe by pushing Ryan's face aside with the toe of his shoe.
The crowd erupted in sharp, derisive laughter, only to fall silent again when Uriel lifted his hand.
Ryan felt tears sting his eyes, blurring the smug disgust on Uriel's face. Zack stood to Uriel's left, wearing a tight expression that screamed silent violence. Hugo mirrored the contempt, his smile a chilling mask of malice and hatred. Ryan wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He wasn't gay, but the world had assigned him a label—femboy, freak, the boy who "enjoys sucking the wieners of other boys"—and their cruelty was his reality.
Uriel's face contorted with anger at Ryan's quiet defiance. Then, a sudden, dark idea crossed his mind. He cleared his throat, drawing every eye in the hall, including Ryan's, back to him.
"Now, boys," Uriel addressed his lieutenants. "What do you suggest we do to make his punishment more… interesting?"
Zack stepped beside Uriel. "A rat chase," he suggested—no ordinary game, but a brutal hunt where the pursued is an 'antelope,' chased until they reach the school's very edge or a designated safe place. Uriel smiled, but remained unsatisfied.
He motioned to Hugo. "Redemption," Hugo declared. "Let him enter the Ring of Hell." This was their notorious, underground boxing ring, a place where a fight ended only when one person was broken—half-dead, injured, or with a shattered limb.
Uriel found both ideas intriguing, but he craved humiliation. He bent halfway, gripping Ryan's jaw tightly enough to leave a bruise. Ryan winced, his blue eyes locking onto Uriel's dead, alluring emerald orbs.
"You have only twenty-five minutes to get to the Old Library," Uriel hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "If we get there before you, the consequences will be… unforgettable."
Ryan jerked up, his hands and lips trembling, then scurried away, sprinting down the hallway. He vowed he wouldn't fail, praying Uriel would keep his word.
"You're not going to let him be, are you?" Hugo's voice was dripping with mischievous anticipation.
Uriel chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound. Zack joined in, clapping Uriel on the shoulder. "Relax and watch the show, dude. It's going to be fun."
The crowd dispersed, following the Z3—Uriel, Zack, and Hugo—who led them through a secret, hidden tunnel.
Meanwhile, Ryan ran like a madman, his life hanging on a fraying thread. His journey was not smooth; minions had been sent ahead to hinder and delay him. He glanced over his shoulder at the distant mob, then focused ahead. The Old Library came into view—it had been burned down years ago, then refurnished into a massive, circular, tiered stadium. This location was sacred to the students; no teacher or authority figure dared to penetrate it.
He burst inside, clinging to the hope that he had arrived first. But a sudden, solitary clap and a low whistle from behind him made every hair stand on end.
"Nice race, Cali-freak. You see, if you were fast enough, you would've arrived earlier than all of us."
He turned. The stadium was already full. Students occupied every circular, staircase seat, watching him.
He tried to run, but two burly boys caught him instantly. He thrashed, but his wast
ed effort felt like chaff scattered by the wind. His small frame was a toothpick against their huge logs.