Rex gave a casual shrug, his tone light. "Honestly, it’s not some top-tier luxury ride like everyone’s saying. It just looks a bit sharp, that’s all. Clean lines, decent finish — but underneath, it’s just a regular car. People love to exaggerate. It looks flashier than it is. You can do a lot with a decent budget and someone who owes you a favor, and boom! suddenly everyone thinks you’re driving a million-dollar car."
A few of them frowned, still processing, but most slowly nodded, seemingly convinced—for now. After all, they’d known Rex for nearly three years. He’d never been one to draw attention to himself. Distant at times? Absolutely. A little hard to read? No doubt.But never the flex-and-flaunt type that flashes wealth or chases attention. If anything, Rex had always carried himself with a quiet kind of confidence, the kind that didn’t need brand names or bold statements to stand out.
And they all knew—at least in vague terms—that he didn’t come from extravagant wealth. Upper-middle class, maybe. Comfortable, sure. But not the type of background that casually dropped thousands on designer wardrobes or imported sports cars.
So yeah, the whole "secret millionaire" thing? It didn’t really add up. Not to them, anyway. Not yet.
"So what you’re saying is," one guy said, still eyeing the shoes, "even if they look like they belong in a Paris runway show..."
"They’re street specials," Rex finished, "stitched with hope and deception."
That drew a round of laughter.
Sam elbowed him. "Still, man. I don’t know whether to applaud you or file a report. You walk around here looking like a brand ambassador for secrets."
"Can’t a guy look decent without being interrogated by the Fashion Police?" Rex asked, palms up. "Besides, you all know me. If I actually had that kind of money, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be on a beach somewhere. Or hiding in a cabin in the Alps."
The joke finally broke the invisible tension.
"Alright, alright," one guy said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You’re off the hook—for now."
"But I’m still gonna find out where you got those shoes," another grumbled.
"And the coat," added someone else, eyes gleaming. "Just for research purposes."
Sam caught up to him. "Hey," he said, voice quieter now, less teasing. "Jokes aside... you okay?"
Rex looked over, mildly surprised. "Yeah?"
"Just..." Sam scratched his head. "You just... disappeared for a bit. Then came back with fake designer gear and started casually hanging out with Daisy of all people. It’s fine if you don’t want to talk. Just—if something’s up..."
Rex smiled faintly. "I’m good, man. Just needed to take care of some stuff. Clear my head."
Sam nodded slowly, sensing that was all he’d get. "Alright. But if you ever need to talk—"
Rex clapped him on the shoulder. "I know."
They looked at each other and laughed again, and just like others scattered into the class.
Rex made his way toward his seat, glancing around the room as he passed the usual desks, eyes drifting to the corner where the Beauty Trio usually held court. Still no sign of them.
He arched a brow, already picturing the "interrogation" poor Daisy was probably going through at the hands of Sophie and Hannah.
Poor Daisy. She hadn’t stood a chance the moment Sophie and Hannah cornered her.
Whatever truth they were prying out of her—about him or otherwise—it would probably not stand a chance against wicked friendship "interrogation."
Knowing those two, it wasn’t going to be just a round of intense questioning. He could already picture the scene: Daisy sitting helplessly on a pink plush chair, her arms pinned as Sophie grinned with that sadistic sparkle in her eyes, muttering something about "tickle therapy." Hannah would be in charge of wardrobe—pulling Daisy into outfits far too revealing for daylight, unzipping zippers that didn’t need unzipping, replacing bras with lacey traps disguised as "fashion statements."
There’d be talk of "body confidence checks," which was really just code for strategic gropes under the pretense of adjusting straps or straightening seams. Laughter echoing. Clothes flying. Protests muffled with lip gloss and double-sided tape.
You know—the usual psychological warfare girls deploy when they’re fishing for secrets... or just bored and dangerously pretty.
Rex sighed. Deeply. Poor Daisy... truly suffering in the hands of evil.
Actually... she shouldn’t be the one enduring such terrible, unspeakable punishments. No, no—he should be the one taking that burden. As a man—no, as a responsible, selfless citizen of this cruel world—it was clearly his moral duty to offer himself up as tribute. To suffer in her place. For justice. For equality. For the greater good.
Strictly in the name of fairness, of course. Nothing else. Absolutely nothing... questionable.
He cleared his throat, forcefully yanking his thoughts back from the edge of degeneracy, and made his way to his seat like a man who definitely wasn’t jealous of another girl’s suffering.
"Sup," Rex said casually as he reached his seat, sliding into his chair with practiced ease.
To his left was Joe—quiet, brooding... okay, scratch that. A second glance revealed he wasn’t mysterious at all. Just a hardcore nerd buried in notes like they were ancient scriptures.
Joe gave a silent nod, barely lifting his head, already halfway back into a dimension where grades were God and sleep was optional.
On his right was Elara. Also a nerd. Though she wore it with more subtlety—neat handwriting, color-coded tabs, and that ever-present air of quiet panic.
She glanced at him, muttered a soft, "Hi," and immediately turned back to her notebook like he was some kind of predator and she was prey with a GPA to protect. Was she... blushing?
Rex blinked. Did he have something on his face? Or did she think he was going to eat her?
Not that he was into that. Probably.
Speechless, he sat down, not understanding the brain circuits of his weird deskmates. What’s so interesting about studying all the time anyway?
They should take notes from him—live a little, be free, have fun—
...Then he remembered how he had spent the past weeks buried in notes,ten-hour cram sessions, and that one night he practically hallucinated his textbook talking back.
He coughed, shamelessly.
Right. What he meant was that he was a beacon of freedom. Effortless. Chill. Not bound by the petty concerns of quizzes and assignments. What even was studying, anyway? Pfft. That was for peasants.
Now, as a proud, self-declared member of the Squeezing Class—those who do as little as possible and extract as much as they can from everyone else—his sacred duty was clear: to squeeze.
Time. Energy. Group project work. Notes.
He smirked to himself. Noblesse Oblige, after all.
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