Nicholas Cage—retired mathematics professor from Columbia University, and the first teacher Alvin "recruited" after taking over the school.
The old man shared the same name as a Hollywood star Alvin remembered from his past life. Rough-faced, portly, and sporting the temperament of a classic Western cowboy, he hadn't come willingly. In fact, he'd put up a hell of a fight.
But after multiple "invitations" to tour the school, his passion for teaching reignited. In his own words: This place might not produce Einsteins, but it'll churn out mathematicians by the truckload.
He adored the school's system. Students who skipped homework? Double the punishment. Disrespect a teacher? The disciplinary office would teach them manners. Major offenses? The converted storage-room black cell would make them regret it for life.
To most, this place resembled a prison more than a school. But to the old professor, it was the fairest, most effective way to prepare students for the real world.
No class divisions. Every student judged solely by their grades.
Unlike other schools, where kids were quietly sorted into social hierarchies before they even graduated.
Out there, ordinary kids enjoyed "happy learning" and "carefree growth," while rich ones slogged through elite programs, crushed by academic pressure, cramming arts and extracurriculars into every spare minute. By college admissions? The wealthy had a head start—smoother, easier.
Here? Every student played by the same rules. Even star athletes—basketball, baseball, football—had to maintain passing grades to train.
Alvin didn't buy that "no academic talent" crap. If you can master sports plays and tactics, you can pass a damn test.
Back in his past life, his son's classmate—IQ of 85—had been drilled by their teacher into passing every subject.
So here, Alvin didn't believe in tears. Only results.
"Goddamn it, Alvin! You dragged me here to teach, and I came. But what the hell are you doing? Spending money on taller walls—and fucking barbed wire?!"
"I don't even oppose that. But maybe buy the equipment I asked for first, you bastard! I don't have a single decent computer! If I don't see what I need by next week, I swear to God, I'll—"
Alvin raised an eyebrow, waiting. Go on. Say you're leaving. I'll happily send you home to retire.
The old man had demanded a multimedia center. Fine. But a supercomputer? That was pushing it.
Even a decommissioned one cost millions. Where was Alvin supposed to get that? Rob Stark Tower with his ghost wolves?
Cage stewed. His life's work was here now. The threat died in his throat. Finally, he spat, "I'll report you to the Department of Education!"
Alvin sighed. "Professor, be reasonable. We're not exactly rolling in funds. What'll you even report? Our highest grade is 12th—what do they need a supercomputer for?"
"Look at Principal Nelson—hair gone gray scraping together budgets. You're an educator. Understand our position, yeah? The supercomputer will come. But we've got to walk before we run."
The professor wasn't budging. He eyed Alvin with contempt. "Spoken like someone who never set foot in a university. You want a good school? Teachers matter. Know how many researchers queue for months just to borrow a supercomputer?"
"Get one here, and top-tier academics will flock to you. But no—you'd rather build walls. Too ignorant to see that talent makes a school."
The jab stung. Alvin hadn't gone to college. But he knew talent mattered. Did the old man have to be so blunt?
Still, he shrugged. "No money. What's your genius solution?"
Cage smirked. "Lean on Hell's Kitchen's gangs. Their kids study here. Shouldn't parents contribute?"
"Twenty-odd gangs—just 10 grand each. My old Columbia contacts are retiring a supercomputer. I can get us a steal." He winked, like he had insider pull.
Alvin nearly choked. Is this a professor or a bandit? How had this man survived Marvel's underworld into his seventies?
Two million was a bargain. But shaking down small-time gangs? Terrible idea. Unlike Kingpin, they'd claw back every cent fivefold.
Donations? Maybe—after this year's test scores proved the school's worth. Not now.
Alvin rubbed his temples. Maybe hitting up Kingpin again… but even sheep notice when you shear them too often.
"Professor, extorting gangs is a no-go. But—talk to your contact. If the deal's real, I'll slash the building budget. Nelson can try for loans."
"Just don't half-ass this term. No high school in America has a supercomputer. We'll be first."
Trapped by his own hustle, Alvin groaned. The old man was brilliant—but a tyrant.
Cage straightened his tie, smug. "Good. Several seniors show promise. I'll write Columbia recs."
"Half this year's class could hit 22 on the ATCs. Only thing I like here? Your discipline system. Can't break a horse without a whip."
Then, switching to loan-shark mode: "Now get the money. Supercomputer first. Nelson—I'll hook you with banks. My former students run them."
Under the professor's glare, Alvin and Nelson caved like debtors signing their lives away.
Cage clapped Alvin's shoulder, grinning. "You won't regret this!"