At Westbridge Institute.
The university cafeteria was a controlled explosion of noise—clattering trays, scraping chairs, and the collective roar of a thousand young voices fueled by cheap pizza and dreams.
Julien, however, was anchored at a corner table, a small island of calm amidst the storm, pushing a sad-looking portion of lukewarm spaghetti around his plate.
"Dude, are you going to stab that pasta or eat it?"
Erik, lean and perpetually energetic, snatched a French fry from Dave's plate, his eyes alight with mock panic.
"You're going to need that energy for the Midterm Massacre next month. Professor Anya's History final is basically a trial by fire, and you're looking like the sacrificial lamb."
Dave, built like a linebacker and currently wrestling with a stubborn soda bottle cap, chuckled darkly. "Don't scare him, Erik. Julien here has to maintain his composure. He has to save that energy for his other final boss: the dreaded Organic Chemistry midterm. I hear the molecules themselves weep when you look at the syllabus."
Julien finally looked up, managing a wry half-smile. "Ha. Ha. Very funny, you two. You know, if you spent less time devising nicknames for academic suffering and more time reading the damn textbook, maybe you wouldn't both be clinging to C-minuses."
"Ooh, savage!" Erik leaned back, throwing a hand over his heart. "But seriously, Jule, you look drained. Did 'The Velvet Cage' keep you late again last night? Those perverts getting handsy?"
The casual mention of the club instantly soured Julien's mood, the memory of the back alley stench lingering especially those perverts.
"Something like that. Look, it pays the rent. Now stop worrying about my fictional lack of study ethics and eat your sad excuse for a meal."
Dave finally wrestled the cap off with a loud POP! and took a long swig. "Just try to get some sleep, man. You're burning the candle at three ends."
Julien was about to retort when his phone, lying face-down next to his tray, began to buzz with a relentless, distinct rhythm.
He glanced at the screen, and his face instantly hardened, the easygoing camaraderie dissolving into a mask of cold wariness.
[Caller ID: Sunrise Home.]
Specifically, the number belonged to Mrs. Mathilda.
"Speak of the devil," he mumbled, pushing his chair back. "I need to take this. Be right back."
"The orphanage? Everything okay?" Erik asked, noticing the abrupt shift in Julien's demeanor.
"Yeah. Just... administrative garbage," Julien said, his voice flat. He walked quickly toward a quieter corridor near the library entrance, the festive noise of the cafeteria fading behind him.
He answered on the fourth ring, his tone carefully neutral.
"Hello, Mrs. Mathilda."
A high, saccharine voice, layered with artificial warmth and a metallic undertone, immediately chirped on the other end.
It was the voice of a professional caretaker—polished, pleasant, and utterly devoid of genuine affection.
"Ah, Julien! My dear boy! I am so glad I caught you at a good time," Mrs. Mathilda cooed, her voice practically dripping honey that Julien knew concealed a core of bitter vinegar. "I hope your classes are going splendidly! You always were such a bright star."
Bright star, right. As long as I kept my head down and didn't cause trouble for your quarterly budget reports, Julien thought, a deep, weary wave of disgust washing over him.
"They are fine, thank you, ma'am," Julien replied, his focus entirely on keeping his tone respectful and distant. "What can I do for you?"
Mrs. Mathilda gave a delicate, staged sigh.
"Well, you know how things are at Sunrise. We are stretched so thin, my dear. We simply must make room for the new little faces that need our help so much. And since you are already… so independent."
The pause before the last phrase hung heavy in the air. Independent—a polite code word for 'legally 18 and no longer our financial obligation.'
"We are preparing your final discharge papers," she continued, her voice maintaining that horrifyingly cheerful lilt. "It's such an exciting time for you, Julien! A wonderful new chapter! We need you to come by next Saturday, just to sign a few final documents—a proper, lovely severance."
Julien felt his knuckles whiten around his phone, his throat tightening.
Severance. As if he were a redundant employee, not a person who had spent his entire childhood within those unwelcoming walls.
"I understand," Julien managed, the words tasting like ash. "I'm sure you have many children who need the room."
"Precisely! And we couldn't be happier for you to finally spread your wings," she gushed, the satisfaction clear beneath the veneer of kindness. "It truly warms our hearts to know that our young men, like you, are finally out of our hair and making their own way. We just need a clear handover of any remaining property, and a final farewell, of course!"
No one is asking for a 'farewell,' Julien thought bitterly. Just sign the dotted line so you can claim the tax benefits of a successful 'graduate' and clear the bed for the next anonymous kid.
"Next Saturday. I'll be there," Julien confirmed, forcing the last of his composure into the statement.
"Wonderful, Julien! Such a responsible young man. We will see you then. Best of luck with those difficult final exams!"
She hung up with an audible click, leaving Julien standing in the quiet corridor, the noise of the cafeteria now sounding like a distant, irrelevant joke.
His hand was trembling slightly. The call, while expected, felt like the final, definitive cutting of a rotten cord.
He was free, yes, but officially abandoned, dismissed with a polite smile and an eager shove out the door.
He took a slow, deep breath, burying the familiar anger beneath layers of stoicism.
Next Saturday. One more trip to that hellhole.
Julien shoved his phone back into his pocket, pausing just long enough to let the cold tension in his shoulders ease.
He ran a hand quickly over his hair, adjusting the expression on his face, smoothing away the sharp edges of disgust and frustration.
By the time he pivoted and started walking back to the table, the 'Julien' his friends knew was firmly back in place: slightly weary, perpetually sardonic, and completely in control.
He slid back into his seat, picking up his fork as if no interruption had occurred.
He flashed a quick, almost blindingly bright smile—the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes, but was entirely convincing.
"Everything good?" Dave asked, ever observant.
"Peachy," Julien replied, stabbing a piece of spaghetti with unwarranted aggression. "Just Mathilda being Mathilda. Final paperwork. You know, making sure I'm officially not their problem anymore. The usual."
He made the ordeal sound utterly mundane, administrative tedium rather than a final, surgical removal from his only known home.
Masking. It wasn't merely a habit; it was a deep-seated survival skill, honed over years of navigating the capricious moods of the 'caring' adults at Sunrise Home.
Show weakness, and you became a target. Show pain, and you became a chore. Better to be blank, competent, and pleasantly dismissive.
Better to hide the churning resentment and fear that always lay beneath the surface.
Erik didn't press the issue, mercifully switching back to the comfortable territory of academic complaints. "Seriously though, I'm thinking of dropping History. If I have to memorize one more obscure treaty signed by some dead nobleman, I'm going to combust."
"You say that every semester," Julien scoffed, taking a bite. "And you always pull through. You'll pass. Unlike you, however, I actually need to get this degree to work."
Dave leaned forward conspiratorially. "Speaking of work, Jule, did you hear old Professor Meyers talking about the Kingswell Academy Scholarship again? He was practically drooling."
Julien's attention sharpened instantly.
Kingswell Academy. The name itself felt polished and distant, belonging to a different world.
It was the most prestigious university in the entire country, located in Kingston City, the capital—a glittering metropolis that felt a universe away from their quiet, dust-and-dirt town of Westbridge.
"Yeah, I heard him," Julien admitted, trying to keep his voice casual. "The full-ride application is due next month."
Erik elbowed Julien sharply, grinning like a shark. "Full-ride. To the Kingswell Academy. Imagine getting out of Westbridge and heading to the capital, man. That's the dream. Everything here is small-time. All the real opportunities are in Kingston."
Dave chimed in, pointing his fork at Julien. "And that's you, Jule. We all know it. The scholarship is practically designed for the top student with an 'overcoming adversity' background. You're the poster child."
Julien felt a knot of anxiety mix with a faint, thrilling warmth in his chest.
He was a top achiever, academically obsessive precisely because he knew his future depended solely on his own merit.
He couldn't afford a misstep.
"Don't jinx it," Julien said, forcing a weary eye-roll, trying to play down the soaring hopes Dave's words ignited. "The competition is insane. And the exam they set is notorious. It's not just about grades."
"Sure, it is," Erik countered dismissively. "You're top of the class, Julien. You're practically a lock for an automatic eligibility spot. Plus, you're the perfect pity case—orphan, works two jobs, straight A's. It's a guaranteed ticket."
"A pity case," Julien repeated, the smile tightening on his face.
The words stung, even though he knew they were technically true. He hated relying on his background, but he understood the game.
"If you guys keep talking like this, I'm going to fail the exam just to spite you both."
Dave winked. "Nah. You're not going to fail. You're going to pass, pack your bags, and forget all about us country bumpkins next fall. Just remember your old friends when you're sipping expensive coffee and studying theoretical physics at the capital."
Julien laughed, a genuine sound that time, masking the fierce determination that was now burning brighter than ever beneath his façade.
Kingswell. It wasn't just a university; it was his escape, his final, definitive break from the stale air of the orphanage and the grime of the nightclub. He had to get it.
***
Another Shift at The Velvet Cage.
The air inside was thick and aggressive tonight, smelling of expensive cologne, cheap sweat, and the electric energy of people determined to forget their week.
Julien moved through the pulsing darkness, a phantom gliding between tables.
The bass thrummed against his skull, and the strobe lights fractured the room into dizzying, momentary flashes.
As he collected a pyramid of empty highball glasses, his eyes drifted toward the coveted VIP section—a raised, velvet-roped area usually reserved for the city's older elite, the ones with money old enough to smell dusty.
Tonight, however, it was different.
The group nestled in the plush, curved booth was visibly younger. Early twenties, maybe even Julien's age.
They wore clothes that looked effortlessly expensive, draped over bodies that had clearly never endured a double shift or a back alley trash run.
Their laughter was loud and carefree, echoing an entirely different kind of existence.
A party for the Young and Wealthy, then, Julien registered, a fleeting spike of curiosity giving way to instant self-preservation.
Better not get entangled.
That was the primary rule of survival.
Keep your head down, do the job, and avoid any unnecessary involvement with the clientele—especially the ones who had the time and money to make trouble.
His life was complicated enough with midterms and eviction notices; he didn't need drama imported from Kingston City.
He fell back into the rhythm of the work:
Serve.
Clear.
Endure.
"Hey, server! Table four needs another round. Make it fast, buddy."
"Sure thing, sir. What can I get for you?" Julien replied, pasting on the practiced, neutral expression.
"Two shots of Patron Silver, one vodka-cran, and... wait, make that one vodka-cran and one 'Blue Dream,' extra ice, no lime."
"Got it. Two Silver, one vodka-cran, one Blue Dream, extra ice," Julien confirmed, his memory sharp, moving quickly toward the service bar.
He was the model of diligence, his natural, striking looks—tall, naturally defined build thanks to constant labor, and a handsome, clean-cut face—making him an easy hire for this job.
It was minimum wage, but the tips were decent, enough to make it the most profitable part-time gig he could get.
Yet, every interaction was an exercise in endurance. He carried the invisible armor of his 'mask' tonight, deflecting the subtle invasions.
He felt the weight of persistent gazes as he leaned across tables, heard the muttered, appreciative comments about his physique, and had to subtly pivot away from hands that sought to linger.
He had become adept at acting like it was nothing. A server's professionalism covered the deep-seated discomfort. It's just a job, Jule. An actor playing a part. Don't react.
Finally, the rush began to thin.
Julien's internal clock told him it was nearly time for the final, dreaded trash run. He grabbed a bus tub overflowing with abandoned glasses and sticky napkins, hoisting it onto his hip.
He was intent on confirming if the alley dumpster was full before making the final trip.
He spun around a darkened pillar near the VIP area, his mind already calculating the weight of the last trash bag, when it happened.
CRASH.
He didn't see the young man until the collision jarred the tray in his hand, causing a cascade of ice and liquid to splash onto the floor. The bus tub wobbled violently.
"Fuck, are you blind?"
The voice was sharp, cutting through the music—a pure tone of entitlement and shock.
Julien's heart hammered instantly. This was it. The moment a slip-up would cost him his job, or worse.
He dropped the bus tub onto the nearby floor with a solid thud and immediately turned, bowing his head slightly in an action of instantaneous apology.
"My sincerest apologies, sir. I didn't see you coming out. Are you alright?"
Julien kept his voice low, respectful, adopting the most subservient tone his server persona allowed.
The young man was brushing fiercely at the shoulder of his crisp, black shirt, though Julien hadn't actually splashed him with anything substantial.
He was strikingly handsome, with sharp, arrogant features and an air of unmistakable nobility that transcended mere wealth.
His posture, the expensive cut of his clothing, the sheer, unbridled temper in his eyes—it all screamed a background of inherited power and zero tolerance for error.
Julien instantly recognized him as one of the young men from the VIP section.
"Watch where you're going," the young man snapped, his annoyance palpable, but he seemed more focused on pulling a gold card out of his wallet and glancing at the time.
"Just clean it up."
Before Julien could offer another word of apology, the young man had already pivoted, stepping over the scattered ice with casual disdain and heading toward the main exit, his attention already on his phone.
Julien let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Thankfully he was left off easily.
He watched the handsome face disappear into the crowd for a split second, locking the image away—a face of privilege, a glimpse into the world the Kingswell Academy scholarship was supposed to grant him access to.
Then, he immediately crouched down, retrieving a damp napkin and starting to clean the sticky mess.
No time for philosophy. He had been lucky this time.
"Thank God," he mumbled, wiping the floor. He glanced quickly toward the back exit.
Right. The trash run. Let's finish this.