Page 74 of The Drama King
The male Omega had proven remarkably resilient to standard intimidation. His family's pharmaceutical wealth provided buffers most students lacked, and his academic record waspristine enough to withstand casual sabotage. But everyone had vulnerabilities if you knew where to look.
Unlike Dorian's crude obsession with direct confrontation, I preferred surgical precision. Find the exact pressure point that would collapse someone's entire world, then apply force with mathematical efficiency.
Robbie Gao was about to learn what happened when someone interfered with pack business.
I dressed carefully—charcoal suit, silver tie, the expensive but understated wardrobe that opened doors and commanded respect. No school uniform today; this was a deliberate power move. Northwood's academic dress code didn't apply to students who transcended student status. Today required inhabiting several different personas, and appearance was crucial for each performance.
First stop: campus security, where my family's donations had purchased access to surveillance systems and incident reports. The desk sergeant barely looked up as I signed in.
"Morning, Mr. Barclay. What can we do for you today?"
"November 15th footage, McArthur Hall," I said simply, sliding a folded paper across his desk. "And I'll need editing access."
He glanced at the Barclay family letterhead—no questions asked, no authorization required. Twenty minutes later, I had security footage edited to show Robbie entering Vespera's dormitory during her heat cycle and emerging hours later in obvious biological arousal. Damning visual evidence that would support whatever narrative I chose to construct.
Second stop: Professor Stockley's office in Chemistry. I showed her my family pin, mentioned pharmaceutical investment partnerships, and presented doctored communications suggesting Robbie had been pressuring faculty for controlled substances.
"Dr. Stockley, my family's legal department has flagged irregularities involving Mr. Gao's pharmaceutical access," I said, showing her the edited footage. "We'll need a detailed report of any interactions regarding controlled substances. Something demonstrating your commitment to regulatory compliance."
Ten minutes. She was already drafting the report before I left.
Third stop: Dean Whitmore, who greeted me like the major donor family member I was. She offered me tea from her personal collection, gesturing to the chair opposite her mahogany desk. I presented my carefully prepared case—security footage, Stockley's report, psychological profiles, financial records—all arranged to paint systematic predatory behavior.
"Robert Gao represents a significant liability," I concluded. "Immediate suspension pending investigation. The kind of comprehensive response that demonstrates institutional competence."
Dean Whitmore nodded grimly, her silver-streaked hair catching the morning light as she made notes. "I'll have the orders prepared within the hour."
Three stops. Three victories. The administrative machinery of Northwood grinding into action with the efficiency that Barclay money had purchased over decades of strategic donations.
But I wasn't finished.
Fourth stop: Robbie's dormitory, where I knew he would return after learning that his entire academic career was being placed under investigation, his family contacts flagged for misconduct, his reputation systematically demolished through official channels.
I waited in the hallway outside his room, reading case studies on my tablet while monitoring the elevator. When he finally appeared—shoulders slumped, face pale with shock, moving likesomeone who'd received devastating news—I allowed myself a moment of professional satisfaction.
Surgical strike, perfectly executed.
"Robbie," I called out as he approached his door. "We need to talk."
He stopped, black hair catching fluorescent light as he turned to face me. Up close, I could see evidence of tears—red-rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks, the emotional devastation that came from watching your future collapse in real time.
"You," he said quietly, understanding flickering in his expression. "This was you."
"This was consequences," I corrected, standing with fluid grace. "Actions have results, Robbie. Surely someone from your family background understands that principle."
His scent spiked with fear and rage, but also resignation—he understood exactly how thoroughly he'd been outmaneuvered. "What do you want?"
"I want you to understand your situation," I said conversationally. "Right now, you're facing academic suspension, potential criminal charges, and complete destruction of your reputation. Your family's pharmaceutical connections are under investigation, your access to controlled substances has been revoked, and every interaction you've had with Omega students is being scrutinized for exploitation."
His hands trembled as he fumbled with his key card. "None of that is true. I've never—"
"Truth is irrelevant," I interrupted, watching as he finally managed to swipe the card. The door clicked open, and I followed him inside without invitation, closing it behind us with a decisive click.
The small dorm room felt even smaller with my presence filling it. I watched him back away instinctively, putting thenarrow bed between us—a futile barrier that only emphasized how trapped he was.
"Let me tell you the story I've constructed," I said, moving slowly around the bed as he retreated toward the window. "Male Omega from wealthy pharmaceutical family develops fixation on female heat cycles. Uses family connections to obtain military-grade suppressants and controlled substances."
His back hit the wall. I continued my approach, noting how his pupils dilated with genuine fear.