Clayton's POV
Billy strode toward him, that same smug grin from the previous night, glued to his face like it was stitched there. His steps were slow, calculated, the type that screamed confidence—or arrogance, depending on who you asked.
Clayton stood his ground, jaw clenched and fists tight at his sides. He could feel the weight of curious stares pressing in from all directions, students whispering as they slowed to watch the confrontation unfold.
"Well, well," Billy drawled, stopping just short of bumping into him. "Didn't expect to see you here, Clay."
Clayton didn't reply. He could practically smell the expensive cologne wafting off Billy's designer blazer. Wasn't it a crime to use this much cologne in the school? Clayton thought.
Billy's grin widened. "So it's true. You're the charity case Kingston decided to sponsor this year? Special aid program, right? Must've been a real sob story."
Clayton bristled, his shoulders tightening as a hot surge of anger flared in his chest. His jaw worked silently for a moment, teeth grinding behind his lips.
He wasn't ashamed of where he came from—but that didn't mean it didn't sting having it dragged into the light like some kind of public disgrace.
"You don't belong here, man," Billy went on, his voice dropping lower, more poisonous. "Why don't you do everyone a favor and go back to your junkie mother and the slums you crawled out of? This place is for people with pedigree, not… strays."
Clayton's eyes snapped up, sharp and furious. "Is that why you tried to run me over on my first day here?" he shot back, his voice tight with barely restrained fury. "Too scared I might actually earn my spot?"
Billy's grin faltered for a split second—just long enough for Clayton to see the cracks in the polished mask. His eyes narrowed into something more dangerous.
"Don't flatter yourself," Billy said, stepping in so close that Clayton could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "People like you don't earn anything. You're a prop. A publicity stunt. Kingston gets to feel noble while keeping real students like me in the spotlight."
Clayton didn't back down. His fists remained clenched at his sides, but his voice was steady, even cold. "Guess I'll have to work twice as hard to remind you what 'real' actually looks like."
Gasps rippled from the small crowd that had gathered around them, drawn in by the rising tension. Phones were already out, cameras discreetly recording in case things escalated.
Billy scoffed. "You've got a big mouth for someone standing on borrowed time. You really think Kingston is going to pick you over me if things go south?"
"You planning on making that happen?" Clayton asked, eyes narrowing. "Trying to get me kicked out already?"
"I don't have to try, Clay," Billy said with a low chuckle, leaning in just enough for the words to slice. "Just like last night, You'll do it to yourself. People like you always do."
Clayton's muscles tensed. His breathing was steady, but his heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. He was two seconds from swinging—just two. And maybe a part of him wanted to, just to wipe that smug expression off Billy's face.
He opened his mouth to speak, but then…
"Is there a problem here?"
The stern voice cut through the tension like a blade. Two security guards approached, cutting through the crowd with practiced authority. The taller one stepped between the boys, his eyes flicking from Clayton to Billy.
Billy immediately threw up his hands and stepped back, all innocence. "No problem. Just catching up with an old friend." he muttered.
Clayton's lip curled. "Yeah. With the front of his car." he retorted.
The second guard, a woman with sharp eyes and a clipboard in hand, frowned. "Both of you—inside. Orientation's starting in five minutes. If you're late, you can explain why to the disciplinary board... and I suggest you keep your drama off school property unless you want a disciplinary file on day one." she told them.
Billy backed away with a smug smile still playing on his lips. "This isn't over, Clayton," he called as he turned, striding back toward the hall like he owned the entire campus. "Not by a long shot."
Clayton stood still for a moment, chest still tight with adrenaline, eyes locked on Billy's retreating form.
A girl's voice spoke from nearby, calm and amused.
"You've got nerves, standing up to a Duncan."
He glanced sideways. A girl leaned casually against one of the pillars near the entrance. She had sleek black hair tied into a high ponytail, sharp eyes lined in dark kohl, and a mouth quirked in a lazy smirk. Her blazer was slightly unbuttoned, the Kingston crest shining on her chest.
"Who are you?" he asked, not in the mood for another snide remark.
"Someone with eyes… or Just someone who knows better than to poke a sleeping snake," she said, glancing toward the hall. "That was Billy Duncan. His uncle's the principal, in case you didn't know. You just picked a fight with Kingston royalty."
Well, fuck! I'll be damned. Just my luck, Clayton thought bitterly. Of all places, Billy had to show up at Kingston too. And his uncle was the principal. The guy was already a thorn in his side—now he'd have to deal with him here, too.
"I know who he is, and I didn't pick anything," Clayton muttered. "He nearly ran me over."
"Yeah, well," she said, shrugging. "If you don't want to get expelled before the week is over, you might want to stay out of Duncan's way."
She pushed off the pillar and walked past him with a flick of her hair, her voice trailing behind like a warning wrapped in silk.
"Or at least know when to bite back."
Clayton shook his head and followed, the knot in his stomach tightening. Day one, and he'd already made an enemy of one of the most powerful student on campus.
---
The orientation hall was massive, lined with red velvet chairs and a stage at the front, where a tall man in a three-piece suit addressed the crowd. The principal—Mr. Duncan, no doubt—gave a long speech about excellence, discipline, and the history of Kingston. Clayton only half-listened, still trying to shake off the encounter outside.
He sat near the back, away from the crowd of well-dressed students. Everyone else looked like they'd walked out of a fashion catalog, while he wore a secondhand blazer and scuffed shoes. Still, he sat up straight, determined not to look out of place.
When the speech ended, a student guide stood and clapped her hands. "Alright, first years, time for the tour!"
Clayton joined the group as they filed out of the auditorium. Their guide turned out to be the same girl Clayton had spoken to earlier—the one who had warned him about Billy.
Her name was Amber, and despite her earlier cool demeanor, she was all smiles now as she led the group out of the auditorium. With a confident stride, she pointed out the main buildings: lecture halls, practice arenas, science labs, and the central library, sharing brief facts and tips along the way.
As they passed the elite student dorms, Amber explained, "First year students, including those in the Special Aid Program, will be staying on campus in Building C. You'll find everything you need there, including the dining hall, lounge, and shared study rooms."
Everyone knew, though, that most students—especially those from upper-class families—didn't actually stay in the dormitory.
Clayton didn't miss the sideways glances from some of the students at the mention of the program. He ignored them.
When the tour ended, Amber handed out small maps and IDs. "You're dismissed for now. Classes begin tomorrow morning. Special Aid students can collect their room keys from the admin desk in Building C."
He rolled his eyes. There was only one special aid student. Him.
The dormitory towered over him, five stories tall, built from clean stone and glass. It was quieter than the main buildings, but not lacking in comfort.
The common area he passed was modern and well-lit, with sleek couches and smart screens lining the walls. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and found his room number: 2B.
He opened the door and stepped inside.
The room was large—much bigger than he expected; hell, bigger than his entire house. It was clearly designed for two. Each side had a full-sized bed with a smooth wooden frame and clean white sheets.
Beside each bed sat a sturdy desk with built-in drawers, a lamp, and a floating shelf above it for books or personal items. The floor was polished wood, and long curtains hung over a glass door that led to a shared balcony overlooking the campus gardens.
One of the beds was already taken. A neat stack of books sat on the desk, and a duffel bag was placed by the wardrobe. His roommate had already moved in—but wasn't around.
Clayton dropped his backpack on his bed and let out a slow breath. For the first time since he'd arrived, he felt like he could breathe.
Then his watch beeped.
He looked down. The screen lit up with a notification: "1800 hrs – Mission Briefing. Location: North Quadrant."
A smile tugged at his lips.
Moving in would have to wait.
It was time for his mission.