Derek's total wealth sat at $6,184.19.
It wasn't a billion dollars. Not even remotely close. But to him—after years of scraping, budgeting, and surviving on scholarship stipends—it was a cushion. A starting point. Proof that Pandora was not a dream, not a theory, not a reckless gamble. It worked. And now he could build on it.
He transferred $1,184.19 into his personal account. The rest would remain in the system, growing, multiplying, splitting through layers of shell accounts like roots burrowing through soil.
The $1,184.19 was designated for one purpose: changing himself.
Derek had always known that appearance was a currency in a world that judged worth in seconds. A sharper jawline, a stronger body, a confident stride—those things opened doors, shifted dynamics, changed destinies. He didn't need luxury. He needed transformation.
So he purchased a 24-hour gym membership, the kind used by athletes and insomniacs. He bought basic supplements, high-calorie meal staples—rice, oats, milk, peanut butter, chicken thighs, eggs—and a handful of inexpensive but clean clothes to replace his worn ones.
Four to six weeks.
That was his timeline.
In that span, he would bulk up. Harden. Reinvent.
And while he tore his body down and rebuilt it, Pandora would be working on the other half of his future.
The remaining five thousand dollars was reinvested, divided across thirty different shell accounts that Pandora automatically rotated, scrambled, and masked. Every ten minutes, compounding and reallocating. Derek had calculated everything—if the cycles held steady and the pattern repeated across the six-week window, he would cross into billionaire territory before midterms.
He didn't tell anyone.
No one would believe him anyway.
So he threw himself into the grind.
The first days were hell.
He woke at dawn, choked down calorie-heavy meals, forced himself into deadlifts, squats, rows, and sprints. He pushed until his muscles trembled and the metallic taste of exhaustion coated his tongue. Sweat soaked through his shirts. His body ached like broken glass beneath his skin. He slept in short, heavy intervals, waking up even more exhausted.
By the fourth day, he felt nauseous every waking hour.
His legs shook when he climbed stairs.
His arms burned at random.
His appetite felt like a punishment.
But he kept going.
This was the price of evolution.
It was late evening when life decided to add another burden.
Derek was returning from the gym, drenched in sweat, hoodie clinging to his back, mind foggy from exhaustion. He had hoped to collapse on his bed and sleep for a few hours before continuing his next round of meals.
Instead, as he approached his dorm building, a group of guys blocked the entrance.
Three of them.
Two stood behind the one in the center—a broad-shouldered, smug-faced guy with a haircut that screamed frat house royalty and entitlement.
Derek blinked, confused.
The guy stepped forward. "You Derek?"
Derek nodded slowly. "Yeah?"
"Good." The stranger squared his shoulders. "I'm Chad."
The name meant nothing to Derek. He shrugged.
Chad scoffed. "You know—Veronica's boyfriend."
Ah.
The puzzle pieces clicked into place.
Chad stepped closer, puffing up like a peacock. "So why the hell are you bothering my girlfriend?"
Derek frowned. He was too tired for this. "Who's your girlfriend?"
Chad's jaw tightened. "Don't play dumb. Veronica."
Derek raised his hands slightly in an attempt to calm things down. "Look, man, I'm not bothering her. I haven't even spoken to her except once when she showed up at my door. If I caused any trouble, then… sorry. Won't happen again."
It was the truth. It was reasonable. It was meant to end things.
But Chad didn't want an apology.
He wanted a show.
He leaned in, face inches from Derek's. "You hear that, boys? The creep who stalks women suddenly turns into a soft little bitch when a real man shows up."
The two frat boys behind him snickered, nodding in blind loyalty.
Derek sighed through his nose. His patience was already paper-thin. His muscles screamed. His head throbbed. This… posturing buffoon was the last thing he needed.
He shifted slightly—and by pure chance, he caught sight of Veronica.
She stood a short distance away, partially hidden behind a column, watching.
Her expression wasn't fear.
It was expectation.
This wasn't about protection.
This was theater.
She had fed Chad lies to provoke this confrontation, and Chad—proud heir to privilege—was eager to perform the role of heroic boyfriend.
Derek's irritation hardened into something cold.
He briefly considered taking the beating just to be done with it. But his body was already wrecked, and his patience was gone.
So he exhaled and said plainly: "Fuck off."
The words were quiet. Controlled. Deadly calm.
Chad barked a laugh. "Is that supposed to scare me? I could do anything I want to you and nothing would happen. My father runs half the donation board for this school. He funds the damn police department. You're a nobody. A broke orphan who got lucky with a scholarship."
Derek's face remained blank.
Chad continued ranting, but Derek had already tuned him out. He simply turned and started walking toward the building.
That sealed it.
Chad went red with fury—no one walked away from him. No one treated him like background noise.
He charged.
But Derek heard him coming.
Instinct took over.
Derek pivoted, hooked Chad's arm, and used the momentum—
SLAM.
The judo throw crushed Chad against the pavement before he could even raise a fist.
The frat boys froze, shocked.
Before Chad could scramble up, Derek seized his arm, pinned it backward, and began stomping the shoulder joint with brutal efficiency.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Chad screamed, high and raw, echoing across the courtyard.
The two frat boys recovered and lunged at Derek. They tackled him from both sides, forcing him to the ground. Kicks and stomps rained down on him, slamming into his ribs, his back, his arms.
Derek curled inward, shielding his head and stomach. Pain exploded through his body.
But then—an opening.
As one frat boy kicked again, Derek caught his foot mid-swing and twisted with everything he had.
A sickening snap.
A howl of agony.
The guy crumpled, clutching his ankle.
The last frat boy backed away immediately. "Stay the hell away from me, you freak!"
Derek pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly from the combination of exhaustion and new bruises. His entire body throbbed.
He looked at Chad writhing on the ground, clutching his mangled shoulder. Then at the guy with the twisted ankle. He observed them almost clinically, as though he were evaluating the aftermath of an experiment.
"I'll ruin your life if you come after me again," he said quietly.
Then he turned his gaze to Veronica.
Still watching.
He smiled.
Blood stained his teeth.
Her face drained of color.
"Hopefully," Derek said, more to himself than to her, "that's enough."
He walked into the dorm, leaving the wreckage behind him.
And for once, Veronica Sanders was the one who felt fear.