Phei's steps echoed down the hallways of Ashford Elite like he was walking through someone else's expensive hallucination.
Polished marble floors caught the skylight and threw it back at ridiculous angles, blue lockers lined up like soldiers on parade, the whole place curved and gleaming and aggressively modern—the architectural equivalent of a billionaire saying, "What if schools didn't have to pretend they were poor?"
Money hadn't just talked here; it had screamed until the budget surrendered.
Students were draining into classrooms now, post-assembly pandemonium finally coagulating into routine. But the stragglers—the ones still haunting the corridors—saw him.
A sophomore boy grinned wide and threw up a lazy wave. Phei dipped his chin in return.
A knot of seniors parted like the Red Sea with better haircuts.
One of them called, "Good luck tomorrow, man! Don't die!"
Phei lifted a hand—acknowledgment, not invitation.
