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“I thought a guy was bringing this,” he slurs, pulling me a fraction closer. “Why is a girl delivering my food?”

“I’m a guy.” I try to pull my arm back, but his fingers lock harder around my skin.

“You sure?” He leans in, his free hand reaching up to brush the hair away from my neck, his touch making me feel nauseated. Bury it. Bury it for Mom. Bury it for Mom. I force my feet to stay planted, fighting the violent urge to shove him away. These rich kids operate on an entirely different set of rules, holding enough wealth and dangerous connections to ruin my entire life with a single phone call, and I cannot afford to offend the wrong person.

He slides his hand down to my collar, pulling me closer.

“What are you doing?” a voice calls out from inside the dorm.

The guy pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Just having a little fun with this little thing here.”

“Let him go. That’s just weird.” Heavy footsteps approach the door. “What? Are you gay or something?”

The guy drops my wrist. He takes a step back, treating the word as a toxic stigma. “Nah man, I’m just playing with him.”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a crumpled fifty-euro note and shoves it against my chest. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He slams the door shut.

I walk back to my dorm, exhaustion sinking deep into my bones. The deliveries always follow the same pattern—they sexually harass me, they hurl insults, they treat me as less than human—but it pays the bills. Every single paycheck from my restaurant job goes directly into the account for my mother’s medical expenses, and I refuse to touch a dime of it. The cash from these deliveries buys my groceries and keeps me fed, and whatever I manage to save at the end of the month goes straight back to her.

Stepping into my cramped room, I strip off the delivery uniform, take a hot shower to scrub the feeling of the rich kid’s hands off my skin, and pull on an oversized hoodie and a pair of loose shorts.

My phone lights up on the mattress. A midnight delivery request flashes across the screen.

Order: Milk tea and lollipops from the courtyard vending machine.

Payout: €100.

I stare at the massive number—one hundred euros for tea and candy. I need to avoid that handsy guy tomorrow, which means I’ll lose his tips, so I absolutely need this extra cash to cover the gap. Grabbing my keys, I head back out into the cold air.

The courtyard remains empty while I punch the buttons on the vending machine, the silence falling over the campus. The academy sits on an isolated private island, split between scholarship students surviving in the standard dorms and generational wealth occupying the other side. The school provides massive hotels, luxury resorts, and private villas for visiting parents, leaving the elite students to claim the sprawling private houses off the main campus grounds.

The delivery address points directly to one of those private houses.

I walk the dark, winding path away from the main buildings, approaching a massive stone property enclosed by high iron gates. The architecture looks flawless, but I have heard the rumors whispered in the library. Russian Bratva children live in this house. The heirs to crime syndicates operate behind these walls.

I stand before the call box, clutching the plastic bag of milk tea and candy. No one in that gang has ever harassed me, and if they want late-night sugar and choose not to torture me, that works perfectly. I press my finger against the intercom button.

A loud buzz echoes through the quiet night. The heavy iron gate clicks open, and I push my way through, walking up the long, shadowed driveway.

Stepping through the front doors, I enter a massive, open foyer. The house smells of thick cigar smoke and expensive liquor. Surprisingly, they don’t play loud music; usually, private dorms like this always have one party or the other every night. The dull glow of a massive television illuminates the far wall, and the sharp crack of billiard balls echoes from the adjoining room. Several guys sit scattered across the leather furniture—drinking, smoking, and completely ignoring my existence.

I clutch the plastic bag of milk tea and lollipops to my chest.

“Excuse me,” I say, my voice failing to cut through the low hum of their conversation. “I have a delivery.”

Nobody looks up. A guy lines up a shot on the pool table, his focus entirely on the green felt.

I swallow the dry lump in my throat and push more air into my lungs, raising my voice to carry across the large room. “Excuse me! I’m here for a delivery.”

The guy at the pool table pauses mid-stroke. He stands up, chalking the tip of his wooden cue as his dark eyes lock onto me. “Why the hell are you talking so low and shit?”

My grip tightens on the crinkling plastic bag. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt. I’m just here on a delivery, and I need to drop this off. Can you please point me to where his flat is?”

A tall blond guy sitting on the nearest sofa turns around to glare at me. “Who the fuck are you? Who sent you?” He snaps his attention back to the rest of the room in disgust. “I keep saying this shit. We shouldn’t allow these people to come in here.”

Another guy holding a glass of amber liquid waves a dismissive hand. “It’s probably Yakov. Just let him go. It isn’t as if he can do anything. Look at the kid.”