Derek thought he had put the ordeal with Chad Powers behind him. The bruises were still there, and his muscles still throbbed painfully from both the fight and the brutal workouts he subjected himself to daily, but mentally he'd moved on. It wasn't worth dwelling on. Chad had been an obstacle—nothing more. And Derek had already taken precautions.
The night after the fight, while most students slept and the campus cooled into a quiet hum, Derek sat in front of his ghost laptop with Pandora's faint glow illuminating his face. His fingers moved quickly, decisively, navigating digital corridors like a surgeon with steady hands.
Harvard's dorm security footage was child's play to access.
Overfunded systems, undermonitored terminals, complacent IT staff—predictable flaws.
He found the exact time of the altercation, clipped the footage, stored it on a private encrypted drive, then wiped it clean from the school's servers. Even the backups. Pandora's script shredded the data into digital dust.
A quiet insurance policy.
Afterward, he researched Chad's family. He expected arrogance, nepotism, generational wealth—and he found exactly that. Chad was merely a trust fund parasite attached to something larger.
His father, John Powers, CEO of Reindeer Logistics.
Market value: $300 million.
Ownership: 10% personal shares, the rest public.
A powerful man, yes. But isolated power. Concentrated. Predictable.
And predictable was something Derek could dismantle.
Still, he filed it away. No immediate action needed. Not yet.
For the next two days, Derek threw himself into training with almost religious devotion. His body screamed against the strain—muscles quivering, lungs burning, joints aching with each new movement. He devoured calories like a starved wolf: rice, chicken, pasta, milk by the gallon. It was ugly, exhausting, and unglamorous.
Exactly how transformation should be.
By Wednesday morning, Derek dragged himself out of bed, exhausted but determined. His arms felt like weights, but he ignored the pain. He had a routine. He had discipline. And pain meant progress.
He stepped out into the hallway, gym bag slung over his shoulder—
And froze.
Two campus security officers were standing near the exit, eyes scanning the passing students. When they saw him, they nodded and walked directly toward him.
"Derek Morgan?" one asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.
Derek felt a twinge of annoyance, not fear. "Yes?"
"You need to come with us."
He raised an eyebrow. "May I ask why?"
"You've been identified by Chad Powers and Veronica Sanders," the guard said stiffly. "We need to escort you to some officers who want to ask a few questions."
Derek's jaw tightened slightly.
So this is how they want to play it.
He didn't resist. He didn't make a scene. Causing trouble would only give them ammunition. Derek simply nodded and followed them outside the dorm building where a squad car sat waiting, two uniformed Cambridge police officers leaning against it.
One officer, tall with a shaved head, gestured to the back door.
"Get in."
Derek stared at the open car momentarily, then slid inside without a word.
If Chad and Veronica thought this would break him, they hadn't been paying attention.
The ride was silent, the officers whispering to each other occasionally but refusing to address Derek. When they finally pulled up to the precinct, the building loomed grey and unwelcoming under the cold morning light. They guided Derek down a hallway and into a small, windowless interrogation room.
And then they left him there.
Not for ten minutes.
Not for thirty.
Three hours.
Cold metal chair.
Bland white walls.
Buzzing fluorescent light.
Hours meant pressure.
Pressure meant fear.
Fear meant confession.
That was the playbook. He knew it well.
Derek sat calmly, hands resting on the table, posture relaxed. No tension. No panic.
He could wait forever.
Finally, the door swung open, and a man in his late forties stepped inside. Detective Bryan—salt-and-pepper hair, cheap suit, the smell of coffee and bitterness clinging to him like a second skin.
He dropped a file on the table and sat across from Derek, eyes scanning him with disappointment, as if Derek had already failed some unspoken test.
"Well," the detective said slowly, crossing his arms. "Just finished your background check. Nothing interesting. Scholarship kid. No parents. No money. No record. You're a nobody."
Derek didn't respond.
He simply blinked, expression blank.
Detective Bryan continued.
"You want to tell me how a scrawny little broke student like you assaulted Chad Powers? Unprovoked? In broad daylight?"
Derek tilted his head slightly. "Who?"
The detective's jaw clenched. "Don't play stupid with me."
"I'm not playing," Derek replied in a calm, almost bored voice. "Who is Chad Powers?"
The detective's face darkened. He slammed his palm on the table, the sound echoing off the walls. "You think this is funny? You think pissing me off is a good idea? Do you know who you're messing with, you little—"
He launched into a tirade, his voice rising, spitting insults, calling Derek a liar, a creep, a violent punk, useless trash. He paced the room like a caged animal, pointing, shouting, trying to provoke… something.
Derek remained still.
Silent.
Expressionless.
Then the detective inhaled slowly, calming himself. He sat back down.
"Fine," he said, voice level. "Let's talk about Veronica Sanders."
Derek raised an eyebrow. "What about her?"
"Why were you stalking her?" Bryan demanded. "Why were you harassing her after she broke things off with you? Why did you show up at her dorm and threaten her?"
Derek blinked once.
"I have never met either of them in my entire life," he said softly.
The detective scoffed. "Don't lie to me."
"Detective," Derek said, voice suddenly steady, eyes sharpening—not meek anymore, but cold. Very cold.
"Do you have any evidence that I assaulted Chad Powers?"
Detective Bryan paused.
"And if you don't," Derek continued, "then I am being unlawfully detained. Which means you can either charge me… or let me go."
The detective leaned back and laughed—a slow, mocking sound dripping with condescension.
"You think you've got rights in here, kid?" he sneered. "We can hold you for seventy-two hours without charging you. Maybe longer if something… comes up."
Derek smiled faintly.
"Great," he said. "Then I'd like a lawyer."
The detective's grin vanished.
Silence filled the room as Derek stared at him—unblinking, unshaken, unafraid.
For the first time since the interrogation began…
Detective Bryan looked uncertain.