It was Grayson.
Before Jasmine could speak, seeing the scene, Grayson already understood what had happened.
"Hey, isn't that the other poor loser from the Häagen‑Dazs shop the other day?"
Kayla and her two friends, Tiffany and Destiny, turned in surprise at the sight of Grayson, then glanced at Jasmine—and burst into laughter.
"So the two paupers ended up together?" Kayla mocked.
"No wonder that little tramp Jasmine was sitting alone on her bunk, giggling to herself—she must have been in heat for a man," Tiffany sneered.
Grayson had fully intended to confront them—only Jasmine had intercepted him. Now that they'd come to him, he wouldn't let them off.
"Did you hurt Jasmine's face? Why did you pick on her?" Grayson forced his anger into a calm tone, though his chest heaved.
"Why? You need a reason to bully a pauper?" Destiny shrugged, as if his question were ridiculous.
"All right—you asked, so I'll tell you. That little bitch buys all sorts of rotten fruit for the dorm, hogs the sink to wash it, and stands on the balcony slicing her disgusting produce. Who does she think she is, turning the dorm into her own kitchen? I couldn't stand it, so I hit her. What's wrong with that?" Kayla spat out.
Grayson paused. He suddenly remembered how, these past few days, Jasmine had often brought him neatly cut fruit. She, with no money, had bought half‑spoiled fruit at discount, yet carefully prepared it for him.
"You got something to say about that?" Tiffany jeered, looking down on him as one would a fool. "You gonna stand up for this pauper? You don't even know who you're messing with."
At that moment, several muscular young men strolled up—clearly regulars at the campus gym, arms corded with muscle, broad‑shouldered and tall. They flanked Kayla.
"What's up, Fourth Sister?" one of them asked respectively. "Someone give you trouble? Let us handle him."
He pointed at Grayson. "Kid, believe it or not, I could snap your leg off and drop you dead with one hand."
"Damn," another spat at Grayson's feet, "these poor punks got cocky, haven't they? No idea how vicious this world is, no clue who you're up against—ugh!"
"Kid, stop playing games in your dorm all day. Get out and learn who the Iron Bald Eagles are!"
Grayson nearly laughed. He was about to retort when a soft hand gripped his own. Jasmine squeezed his arm gently and shook her head "no." She, of course, didn't know Grayson's true status; she only feared he'd be hurt by confronting these people.
Grayson's heart softened. He decided not to engage them now—he would deal with Kayla's gang another time. He took Jasmine's hand and started to walk away.
"Heh," Kayla sneered. "Scared now?" She stepped forward, looking down at him as one might at an ant. "Kid, if you're smart, leave that little bitch and go. You have no idea how powerful the force you've offended is."
Grayson led Jasmine out of La Trattoria and back towards the dining hall. Truthfully, he felt stifled—those Iron Bald Eagles? He never guessed college could host such bizarre gangs; the place felt more like a triad stronghold than a university.
"What are the Iron Bald Eagles?" Grayson asked Jasmine later, as they shared a simple meal.
"They're their gang," Jasmine replied quietly—accustomed to cruelty. "The jocks are Eagles too; Kayla is one of the core members—number four in their all‑female leadership."
"By the way," Jasmine said suddenly, between bites, "I want to move out of the dorm and live off campus. There's a village slated for demolition nearby—rent is only two or three hundred yuan a month. More expensive than the dorm, but I could work part‑time to make ends meet."
Grayson smacked his forehead. Of course—why hadn't he thought of that? He wouldn't let Jasmine stay in the dorm to be tormented; he would rent her an apartment himself. He would surprise her once he'd secured it.
After parting, Grayson returned to his room, grabbed the bag stuffed with cash, and set out to find a place. He spotted a high‑end complex near campus with a notice board: a studio apartment for 5,000 yuan per month. He called the landlord immediately.
Ten minutes later, he was meeting an elderly woman at the building entrance. She looked shrewd and untrusting; seeing Grayson's ragged clothes and the plastic bag, she frowned.
"Aren't you here to rent?" she asked suspiciously.
"Yes," Grayson replied calmly.
"You're not some fraud, are you?"
"I'm a student at Hawthorne University," he said, showing his ID reluctantly.
He then said, "Five thousand a month—three months' deposit, one month's rent in advance. Here's twenty thousand yuan." He moved to open his bag.
The old woman eyed him contemptuously, convinced he must be hiding something. "Wait—deposit is six months, not three. That'll be thirty‑five thousand," she snapped.
"The ad said three months' deposit," Grayson protested.
"Must be a typo," the woman hissed. "I just renovated; the furniture and appliances are worth it."
Grayson realized she assumed he was a thief who might steal her appliances. He shook his head. "Forget it—I'll look elsewhere."
Frustrated, he left the complex. Renting was a headache. He hesitated whether to continue looking—until he looked up and saw a grand billboard advertising:
"🏡🌲 Luxury Home for Sale in Whispering Pines – Nature, Elegance, and Privacy Combined
📍 Location: Whispering Pines Estates, Asheville, North Carolina
💰 Price: \$1,150,000
🏡 Size: 4 Beds • 3.5 Baths • 3,200 sq ft
🌳 Lot: 1.2 Acres – Private Wooded Lot
🚗 Garage: 3-Car Attached Garage
🛠️ Built in: 2019 – Modern Craftsman Style"
Grayson couldn't help but laugh. After three years of hardship, his thinking had truly shrunk. Why rent when he could buy a home—better yet, a villa? Whispering Pines lay just southeast of Hawthorne University, a prestigious new development.
He made up his mind and headed straight for the sales gallery.
Inside, the showroom was opulent: a towering ceiling with sparkling crystal chandeliers, marble floors reflecting every footstep, white and gold accents everywhere. The sales staff—stunning women—greeted him.
Grayson ducked into the restroom first. Upon emerging, a provocatively dressed woman in a miniskirt was touching up her lipstick at the sink, adjusting poses before the mirror. She glared at him as he walked by, her contempt palpable. Grayson ignored her and washed his hands.
The woman shrieked, "Hey! You splashed water all over me, you slob!"
Grayson looked bewildered as she grabbed her purse and ran off. Outside, she embraced a slovenly young man in a limping grin.
"Baby, that guy in the restroom drenched me—so filthy!" she complained.
"You picked a messy place to take a date," the young man growled at Grayson.
"Sir, sorry—sorry!" the salesperson stuttered, frowning at Grayson. She too assumed he was a homeless scavenger because of the plastic bag he carried.
"Please leave!" she ordered.
Grayson merely smiled. "Since this is a sales center, I'm allowed to look around, right? I want to buy a home." He strolled to the large scale model of Whispering Pines Estates.
The miniature revealed a verdant enclave: on the outer ring, four‑story duplex villas; inside, townhouses; then freestanding villas; and at the very center, a grand modern mansion with its own pool, lawn, rock garden, and bamboo grove—a hidden oasis in the urban sprawl.
The salesperson rolled her eyes, irritated by his presumption—but she had no grounds to expel him. She resumed her pitch to the young couple:
"Only one of the four‑story duplexes remains—five thousand dollars per square meter, two hundred square meters—one million dollars total."
"I'll take it," the youth declared, slapping the table.
"Fine—then a one‑hundred‑thousand‑dollar deposit, please."
"Deposit of a hundred thousand?" he groaned. "I don't have that."
"Then I'm sorry—the deposit is mandatory," the salesperson said, her tone icy.
"Sweetheart, we have to get this, we can't let it go—what are we going to do?!" the woman wailed, shaking him.
"We scraped together thirty‑odd thousand for the down payment—how can I find seventy more thousand now?" he cried.
The salesperson smirked inwardly—another pair of fortune‑hunters nearly impoverishing themselves for the sake of image.
"I'm afraid the deposit can't be held," she said.
"We have to! This is our only option at our price range!" the woman pleaded.
"It's too late."
Grayson stepped forward, voice calm yet carrying iron: "I bought that last duplex."
The young couple froze. The salesperson stared at him, stunned. Grayson held out the neat stack of hundred‑dollar bills in his plastic bag.
"My deposit," he said simply. "One hundred thousand dollars."
The gallery went silent—and in that moment, Grayson realized he held true power in his hands.