"Let me go, you freaking psychopaths!" Ryan strained against their grip, twisting his wrists.
Uriel didn't flinch. Impatiently, he gripped Ryan's jaw, forcing his head back. "You will listen, and you will comply, Ryan Callister." The sound of his own name, spoken with such cold authority, sent a tremor of dread through Ryan.
Uriel's eyes narrowed, a cruel glint in the fluorescent light. "The only punishment I have left for you is this: you'll be cross-dressing for the rest of your high school years."
"W-What?" The word felt strange, disgusting, and utterly foreign on Ryan's tongue. The reality of it was too much to process. He felt his head drop, his shoulders slumping in immediate, crushing defeat—a sharp, physical reminder that his self-esteem had just been utterly annihilated. "I'm not going to do that."
Hugo snorted, a low, guttural chuckle. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over Ryan. "Oh, but you have no option, Eyesore. We're tired of seeing a filth like you breathing the same air. This is a dignified place and not where irrelevance can speak."
"Please," Ryan pleaded, his voice cracking, "I'll do anything else. Clean your lockers, shine your shoes, write your papers—anything but that."
Uriel removed his hand from Ryan's jaw, only to smoothly pat his cheek, a gesture that was far more menacing than a punch. "There is one way to redeem yourself from this utter shame, Ryan." He leaned in, his voice a low, venomous hiss. "Sixty million pounds as compensation."
Ryan's breath hitched, a painful, sharp spike in his throat. Sixty million? His father was the Minister of Revenue, undeniably wealthy, but his entire net worth—assets and physical wealth combined—was barely half that. Thirty million, maybe. There was no way to procure that kind of money without it immediately causing a scandal that would ruin his father.
He drew in a deep, shaky breath of defeat, his heart heavy, sinking like a stone.
"Think carefully before you give a reply, Ryan." Uriel's thumb gently brushed the bruise already forming on his cheek. "Because any wrong answer could guarantee your father's early retirement. Or far, far worse."
"I... I'll do it," Ryan whispered, the shame of the words instantly poisoning his mouth.
"I can't hear you." Uriel raised an eyebrow, a mocking smirk playing on his lips. "Or are you planning on compensating me?"
"No! I said I'll do it!" Ryan yelled, his frustration boiling over in a desperate, last-gasp roar.
SMACK!
The slap was brutal, ringing across the room. Ryan stumbled, his ear throbbing.
"You fool." Uriel's voice was dangerously low, a viper's strike. "If you value your pathetic life, you will never scream at me again." He gave Ryan a hard shove that sent him reeling. "You have only one rule to follow. Failure to do so? I won't repeat myself."
Ryan stared down at his feet, he heard the crowd mocking
Sixty million pounds or his father's entire career.
He knew, instantly and absolutely, what he had to do. His father's position as Minister of Revenue was the culmination of a lifetime of sacrifice. Ryan's own pride was inconsequential against that legacy.
He slowly bent down, his fingers brushing the cold stone floor, and picked up the contract. It was heavy, weighted with the destruction of his own privacy.
"I'll do it," Ryan said, his voice barely a rasp but echoing clearly in the vast space. "I'll be there."
Uriel smiled, a flash of pure, cold victory. "Excellent choice, Ryan. Now, get out of my sight. Seven o'clock sharp."
Ryan didn't need telling twice. He scrambled out of the desolate library and back into the main school grounds, the relief of the temporary reprieve mixing sickeningly with the dread of the evening ahead.
BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, UK, ACHIEVER'S HIGH – One hour's drive from Marylebone
Achiever's High stood tall, a massive structure of red and crème stone. But behind the facade of academic excellence, the school was a stage for social brutality.
The hallways were empty; no teachers, no lessons. Instead, a flood of students rushed toward a single, undisclosed location, drawn like ants to sugar. Everyone was recording and live-streaming, eager to document the day's biggest showdown.
In a secluded courtyard or perhaps a disused gym, the confrontation was already in full swing. Two burly boys strained to hold down a girl who was fighting them like a trapped animal.
This was Meghan Ariana Smith.
She was dressed like a challenge to the world: a red vest over a white undershirt, sleeves rolled up, and cheap, worn-out male trousers and sneakers. Only one earring on her ear, the other she never even put on. Her face was a mask of pain; her lips were bruised, but her grey eyes were a raging, unbroken storm. Her hair, once long and lustrous, had been cruelly chopped into useless, uneven strands with a pair of scissors, a stark contrast to her once golden hair that were packed into a traditional male Korean bun.
Meghan was the daughter of a once-successful UK businessman, a "fallen princess" reduced to near-servitude after her mother's devastating betrayal led to the family's ruin.
Her attacker was Brenda Wales, daughter of Harry Wales, the fourth richest man in the UK and a titan in the oil industry, second only to the Jeffersons. Brenda held Meghan's chin in a painful vice, her hand connecting with Meghan's cheek, generating a warm, spreading agony. Tears threatened, but Meghan forcibly held them back. They weren't worth it.
"Why, you pathetic servant, did you answer that question correctly?" Brenda screamed, her face contorted in fury. "You were supposed to fail! I was supposed to win! You made me look like a fool for making a mistake!"
Meghan didn't look scared, intimidated, or even bothered. She spat out the words, her voice rasping with defiance.
"You're a loser, Brenda," Meghan hissed. "You need to read more if you want to answer questions properly. Or else you're going to humiliate this school in the next competition."
Brenda exploded. She unleashed a second, stinging slap. "Just because you dress like a tomboy doesn't mean you're a man! You're ugly! Unattractive! No boy would spare a glance at you, either!"
Meghan chuckled, a dry, dismissive sound that drove Brenda further into a rage. "Fuck you. And the boys, too."
She deliberately met the eye of Nathan Santiago, standing silently on the periphery. Nathan was her supposed best friend, but since he'd started dating Brenda, he had chosen his side, watching in guilty, sympathetic silence as Meghan was abused.
Brenda lowered her voice, dripping with venom. "You were nothing. Weren't you feeling tough when you were rich, thinking you were on top of the world? Thanks to that bitch—your mother—and your unsuspecting fool of a father, you're dirt now."
Meghan's grey eyes narrowed into a dangerous growl.
"A dog," Brenda taunted, stepping back. "You're nothing but a dog who knows only how to bark."
Furious, Brenda nodded to the boys holding Meghan, Meghan freeing one of her own legs, and delivered a swift, vicious kick. The impact snapped Brenda's head back. A sickening crunch was audible, and her nose immediately began to bleed, broken.
The crowd gasped.
Brenda screamed, clutching her foot, and called out, "Nathan! Get over here!"
Nathan rushed to his girlfriend, casting a brief, tormented, but ultimately guilty and sympathetic look at Meghan.
Meghan met his gaze and raised her free hand, giving him a defiant fuck-you finger before Nathan whisked Brenda away toward the infirmary.
Knockout
Meghan was now left to the students. A bulky guy stepped forward, taking advantage of her dazed state.
"You think you're so tough?" he snarled, hitting her with a vicious open hand.
The two boys holding her clamped down tighter. Meghan smiled through the blood and pain. "You hit like a pussycat," she mocked, spitting a little blood. "I've seen hits bigger and better than yours."
As expected, he flew into a rage. He hit her hard—a blow that made her vision splinter into stars. The pain was too much. Her fight finally extinguished, Meghan fainted on the spot, her body going limp in the hands of her attackers.
The crowd dispersed immediately, their show over. The two boys holding her let go, but not before kicking her limp body.
"I had fun," one smiled to the other as they exited.
"Tough as a diamond," the second cursed, shaking his head.
A third student lingered, pity crossing his face. "I pity her. She had a saboteur for a best friend who just watched her get beaten."
The first two quickly rounded on him. "Forget about her. She's the type who will never bow and doesn't know her place in the social circle. She deserved it." With that final, callous judg
ment, they, too, walked away, leaving Meghan's broken body alone on the floor of the abandoned courtyard.