Those university gates were something else—like, straight outta a fairy tale. Gold and shiny enough to blind you at noon. Ash stood there, kinda wishing he could shrink down and sneak in unnoticed. No such luck. His sneakers—yeah, the ones with the worn-out soles—made this tiny squeak against the stone. He couldn't help thinking: these tiles probably cost more than his whole life savings.
He yanked his backpack higher, tried to pull off that "I totally belong here" vibe. Maybe if he walked fast, no one would notice. Ha. As if.
He hadn't even taken five steps before he caught a pair of girls side-eyeing him, all decked out in coats that probably had their own trust funds. Whispering. Giggling. One of them didn't even bother with the fake-nice act.
"Bet he's one of those charity kids," she said, and wow, she wanted him to hear it.
Ash's face went up like a bonfire, but he didn't snap back. Just that awkward, flickering smile and a stare at the ground. Keep walking, man. It's fine. Totally fine.
Except it wasn't. The place felt too big for one person's confidence—or maybe just too big for his. The air was thick with some expensive scent he couldn't name, all these students floating around like they owned the place. He squeezed his crumpled welcome note: Business Administration, East Wing, Room 212. Yeah. Good luck, kid.
He spotted some guys chilling by a pillar, looking like they'd been born with a silver spoon and a private jet. Might as well ask, right?
"Uh, hey, sorry—do you guys know where Business Admin is?"
One dude looked him up and down, like Ash was a stray dog that wandered in. "Lost already? You sure you're supposed to be here?"
The next one hit harder: "Try the janitor's wing, bro. Might be more your speed."
They all cracked up. Ash felt his ribs shrink. He mumbled a "thanks anyway," but honestly, the damage was done. He could feel it—mouth, eyes, the way his shoulders caved in.
He turned to escape and—bam.
Walked right into someone.
He looked up, and—oh, come on. Metas Monroe. The guy from every glossy magazine ad ever. The hair. The posture. Collar so crisp it could slice bread. Guy looked like royalty and probably didn't even know it.
Ash's heart went full circus act. Skipped, tripped, did a little tap dance. For a second he forgot why he was even standing there. Nope. Nope. Get a grip.
But, of course, the words slipped out anyway. "Sorry, uh...do you know where Room 212 is? Business Admin?"
Metas gave him the kind of look that could freeze soup. "You're in Business?" Like the idea was a bad joke.
Ash nodded, all nerves.
Metas just turned on his heel. "Follow me." No intro. No grin. Just pure, CEO-level command.
So Ash trailed after him, not sure if he should be grateful or just really, really embarrassed. Maybe both? The hallway was ridiculously grand. Students still stealing glances, like he was a zoo animal. Ash just stared at Metas's back—sharp coat, sharp walk, zero backward glances.
They finally reached the room. Metas pushed open the door.
Inside, the prof—older, glasses, voice that could break the sound barrier—stopped and stared right at Ash.
"You must be the scholarship student. Come in."
Ash felt like every molecule in the room was looking at him. He stepped up, slow as molasses.
"Introduce yourself," the professor thundered.
Ash swallowed. Here goes nothing.
"My name's Ash Shophomer," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "and, uh...I hope I can prove I actually deserve to be here."
A blink. Maybe two.
Then—bam. Like, right in the face.
Laughter. Everywhere. Not just a couple of giggles—no, full-on tidal wave. The back row's losing it, left side joins in, even a few in the front can't keep it together. The sort of laughter that's not about a joke, really—it's about you being the punchline. Not ha-ha funny, more... you're weird, and we noticed.
Ash just. Stops. Hands ball up so tight his knuckles look like they've seen a ghost.
But before he can even start feeling the burn, the prof's voice crashes through the noise, sharp as a razor.
"Enough." The word snaps out, all business, zero patience. "This isn't open mic night. Business class, people. One more peep and you're marked absent. Shophomer—seat. Now."
Ash basically nods so fast he might sprain something, heart hammering like it's auditioning for a rock band.
Professor sweeps the room, then points—second row, right. "Next to Miss Casey. She doesn't bite."
Yeah, okay. He moves.
Casey's there, solo mission. Arms tucked, hair back so tight it's practically a helmet, glasses perched, blazer crisp enough to slice bread. She's got that "I was born ready for this" aura. Not exactly radiating "new kid, come sit with me" vibes.
She doesn't even blink as Ash slides into the next chair. No glance, no smile, just this faint pen-tap and scribbling notes like she's already solving world hunger.
Ash sits. Tries to fold himself in half, disappear into the plastic.
Breath in. Out, slow.
So this is the deal, huh?
Laugh. Stare. Pretend he's invisible.
Whatever. At least he's here.
Even if he sticks out like a sore thumb.
"Hi...I am.." He looked at her side and smiled a little. "I heard it, Ash Shophomer l, right? I am Casey Williams" She said with a cold face melting into a warm smile.
"You are a talented one, completely a competitor type for me" she said with a smile never leaving her lips as she had already studied Ash from head to toe.
Ash just gave a tight-lipped smile and put his head down as he had a lot already and got himself a Elite competitor too.
"I am doomed" He thought