Two thousand heads turned.
Two thousand pairs of eyes found the figure moving down the central aisle, and for a moment—just a moment—the entire auditorium forgot how to function.
He walked with his hands in his pockets.
Hands in his pockets.
Like this was nothing. Like approaching the most powerful student in Ashford's history was just another Tuesday afternoon stroll. Like the weight of two thousand stares and the crushing pressure of Marcus's attention was about as concerning as a light breeze—or a peasant's opinion.
Each step was unhurried. Lazy, almost. The kind of walk that said I have all the time in the world, and you'll wait for me to arrive—because the world had learned long ago that rushing for Phei was a privilege it hadn't earned.
And the sound—
God, the sound.
