Jamie looked personally offended.

"Oh my God. You actually are new here."

Lucien shifted upright slightly.

Most people at WK assumed he was French before he introduced himself. His face confused people. Too soft-featured to look fully Chinese. Too dark-haired to pass as completely European.

His mother used to call him beautiful like it was a normal thing to say to a child.

His father mostly called him during holidays.

"Leon Bolton," Jamie said dramatically. "Three-time intercollegiate champion. Future ICK title holder. Bolton family heir. Six-foot-five and built like a homicide charge."

Lucien thought briefly about the shadow in the doorway earlier.

Oh.

"That guy?"

Jamie looked close to fainting. "You met him?"

"Not really."

"What was he like?"

Lucien considered this seriously.

"Large."

"That's it?"

"He looked expensive."

Jamie slapped the counter. "Exactly."

Lucien snorted softly.

Americans really did treat athletes like royalty.

Then again, French people treated football players like minor gods too, so maybe humanity was simply embarrassing on an international scale.

Jamie leaned against the counter dramatically. "Anyway, next month's championship tickets are impossible to get."

"How impossible?"

"Three thousand dollars impossible."

Lucien nearly choked on air.

"For boxing?"

Jamie gasped. "Do not disrespect combat sports in my place of work."

"It's still two men hitting each other."

"It's cinematic violence."

"That sounds worse somehow."

Jamie ignored him. "PLL Chips is sponsoring the event. Buy the new flavor, scratch the card, grand prize is a ticket."

Lucien gave him a flat look.

"The odds of that are basically fictional."

"Dreams are free."

"Rent isn't."

That quieted both of them for a second.

The kitchen bell rang.

Break over.

Lucien pushed himself upright again despite every muscle protesting.

His stomach twisted painfully.

He'd skipped lunch to save money.

Again.

Jamie noticed.

"You eat today?"

"Yes."

"You're lying."

"I'm French. It's basically cultural."

"You're not even fully French."

Lucien pointed at him. "Rude."

Jamie rolled his eyes but slid half a garlic breadstick across the counter wrapped in a napkin.

Lucien hesitated.

Then took it quietly.

"Merci," he muttered automatically.

Jamie grinned. "You get more French when you're pathetic."

Lucien flipped him off weakly and went back to work.

—

Three months ago, Lucien had died.

Technically.

Electrocuted himself at two in the morning after spilling water onto exposed wiring while gaming during finals week.

An embarrassingly stupid death.

He woke up on a plane.

At first he thought he was hallucinating.

Then memories crashed into him hard enough to leave him nauseous.

The fake son.

The rich Chinese family.

The scandal.

The exile overseas.

Lucien had transmigrated into a trashy novel he'd read during exam season because sleep deprivation destroyed personal standards.

At first, he'd actually been excited.

Maybe he could fix things.

Maybe he'd arrived early enough to stop the plot from collapsing.

Then he looked down and saw the empty sleeping-pill bottle in his hand.

The original owner had already lost.

Badly.

By the time the plane landed, the family had paid his tuition, blocked every contact number he had, and effectively erased him from existence.

His father's number.

The house line.

The family assistant.

Even the driver.

Every message failed instantly.

Lucien remembered sitting alone in the airport bathroom staring at the red exclamation marks on his phone until he started laughing hysterically.

Then crying.

Then laughing again.

Very French emotional breakdown behavior, according to his mother.

Camille Renault had raised him in Nice surrounded by galleries, old books, expensive coffee, and the smell of oil paint drying in sunlight.

His father had raised him through wire transfers and academic expectations.

Lucien belonged to both countries and neither one at the same time.

Too French in Shanghai.

Too Chinese in France.

Now he belonged to WK.

Which honestly felt like punishment.

By the end of the night, Lucien was so hungry he stopped at a vending machine outside campus housing and stared blankly through the glass.

Cheap crackers.

Candy bars.

PLL Chips.

He should buy crackers.

Crackers were responsible.

Crackers lasted longer.

Lucien pressed the chip button.

"Coward," he muttered to himself.

The chips dropped loudly into the tray.

Outside, summer rain had passed recently enough for the sidewalks to still gleam beneath the streetlights. Groups of students crossed the quad laughing loudly, warm and careless in the dark.

Lucien walked alone.

He ripped open the bag absentmindedly.

Something slipped out and landed near his shoe.

He frowned.

A scratch card.

PLL Championship Promotion.

Lucien crouched beneath the streetlamp and scraped the silver strip with his key.

Then froze.

Grand Prize.

His heartbeat slammed hard against his ribs.

No.

No fucking way.

He checked again.

Still there.

Grand Prize.

A championship ticket.

A real one.

For Leon Bolton's sold-out fight.

For three full seconds, Lucien forgot how breathing worked.

Then laughter burst out of him suddenly, sharp and disbelieving.

"Oh my God," he whispered in French.

His hands were shaking.

Three thousand dollars.

Maybe more.

Rent.

Food.

Winter clothes.

Actual groceries.

For the first time since waking up on that plane, something inside his chest loosened slightly.

Finally.

Finally something good happened.

Lucien pressed the ticket against his chest and closed his eyes briefly beneath the glow of the streetlamp.

"Merci," he whispered instinctively to nobody at all.

—

"Absolutely not."

Jamie held up the lamb costume. "You'd look adorable."

"I'd rather die."

"You already did once."

Lucien pointed accusingly. "That was low."

"It was accurate."

The next evening, Jamie followed him around the pizza shop holding fluffy white fabric like a man possessed.

"You need rich drunk graduate students," Jamie insisted. "The Back-to-School party is perfect."

"I can sell the ticket online."

"And lose money."

"I enjoy safety."

"You enjoy starvation."

Lucien opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Unfortunately, Jamie had a point.

Jamie grinned triumphantly. "Exactly."

Lucien hated when people were correct.

—

Leon Bolton had no intention of attending the Back-to-School party.

This had been stated clearly several times.

Unfortunately, Joey refused to respect boundaries, logic, or common sense.

"It's one night," Joey said from Leon's couch. "One appearance. People scream. My cousin stops threatening me. Everybody wins."

Leon wrapped black athletic tape around his knuckles slowly.

"No."

"You're deeply unpleasant."

"No."

"You're still coming."

Leon glanced up.

Joey pointed dramatically. "That look doesn't work on me anymore."

It absolutely still worked.

Joey just enjoyed living dangerously.

Leon leaned back against the couch, forearms resting loosely over his knees. Even relaxed, he looked intimidating. Heavy shoulders. Thick hands. A scar cutting faintly through one eyebrow.

Violence sat comfortably on him.

His phone buzzed against the table.

Joey looked down at his own screen simultaneously and swore.

Leon noticed.

"What?"

Joey hesitated.

Then grinned slowly.

"Oh, this might actually get you there."

Leon's expression stayed flat.

"There's a counterfeit ticket seller working campus parties."

Silence.

Then Leon set the tape roll down carefully.

"How many?"

"Twelve reports so far. Maybe more."

"Police?"

"Trying."

Leon's jaw tightened.

Joey watched him closely. "Rumor says the guy might show up tonight."

The room went still.

Leon stood.

The movement alone changed the atmosphere.

Joey smiled. "Knew it."

Leon grabbed his jacket from the chair beside him.

If someone was making money off his championship using fake tickets—

That was stupid enough already.

Doing it on his campus?

Even worse.

Leon slid his watch onto his wrist.

Cold steel flashed beneath the apartment lights.

Joey followed him toward the door. "Try not to hospitalize anyone."

Leon opened the door.

Then looked back once.

Gray-blue eyes.

Calm.

Predatory.

"That depends," he said quietly, "on whether I'm in a good mood when I find him."