Eventually, Derek got a lawyer—one of those sharp-eyed, opportunistic "vultures" who linger around police precincts waiting for frightened clients like hyenas circling an injured animal. The moment Derek was taken into the holding area, three different attorneys approached him with business cards already in hand. He didn't pick the friendliest; he picked the most efficient-looking.
A wiry man named Kessler, with a thinning hairline and a voice like sandpaper, looked over the basic complaint file and shrugged.
"No evidence?" he muttered. "Then they can't hold you. I'll get you out."
He didn't offer sympathy or reassurance, but Derek didn't need either. He simply nodded and allowed the man to do what he was paid for. Within an hour, Kessler had pressured the officers through sheer technical knowledge and procedural aggression, and Derek walked out of the precinct with the taste of metal and adrenaline still in his mouth.
He was released "pending investigation."
Meaning they couldn't charge him, but they wanted him to sweat.
As he stepped out into the night air, the Boston cold bit into his face. Derek blinked against the sting. It felt grounding, almost cleansing. He kept his expression blank, as though nothing that had happened truly affected him, but inside he was already processing, storing information, and categorizing his next steps.
He had expected Chad to react like a child throwing a tantrum after losing a toy. But dragging him into police custody? It was juvenile, yes, but it was also arrogant. Derek made a mental note.
Arrogance always creates openings.
Still, he hadn't even had a day to settle before the next blow struck.
The next morning, before sunrise, an email from the university administration appeared on his laptop:
"MANDATORY APPEARANCE: HARVARD ETHICS REVIEW BOARD — TODAY, 3:00 PM."
The wording was cold, clinical. No greeting. No explanation. Just a summons.
Derek wasn't surprised.
Harvard was a private institution. Its so-called "ethics" were not moral; they were political. They shifted depending on donor influence and public image. And Chad Powers' father donated generously enough to get a library wing named after him.
Arriving at the administrative hall, Derek found himself in a vast room lined with portraits of stern-faced academic founders, marble pillars, and a long mahogany table polished to a mirror shine. Seven professors sat behind it, each with a stack of papers and expressions ranging from disinterest to thinly veiled contempt.
Derek sat alone in a simple wooden chair across from them.
They didn't even wait for him to settle before the barrage began.
Professor Lin accused him of "aggressive misconduct unbecoming of Harvard students."
Professor Aldridge said the rumors were "a stain on Harvard's prestige."
Another professor, whose name Derek didn't bother memorizing, implied that Derek's "background" should have inspired "more humility."
Background.
A polite academic way of saying poor scholarship kid.
Derek listened silently, hands resting on his knees, his breathing steady. They spoke with authority, but their eyes betrayed their motivations. They weren't looking for truth. They were looking to appease a wealthy donor and rid themselves of an inconvenient problem.
Not once did any of them ask for his version of events.
To them, the matter was already settled.
Derek wasn't angry.
He wasn't scared.
He simply watched.
Each insult, each accusation, each pompous monologue became fuel. Every assumption they made about him exposed how blind they were to what he was becoming. They thought he was a desperate charity case clinging to the Harvard name for validation.
They had no idea he would soon surpass them all.
For almost two hours, they lectured him. The words blurred together, blending into one long, self-righteous drone. Derek might as well have been furniture; they weren't talking to him, only at him.
Finally, Professor Aldridge cleared his throat.
"Mr. Morgan, you may respond."
Derek rose.
There was no hesitation. No trembling. No anger leaking through.
Just calm.
"I'd like one month," Derek said, his voice even. "To get my affairs in order. After that, I'll be leaving the school regardless of your decision."
The room froze.
Some of the professors blinked. Others frowned. One woman's pen slipped slightly from her fingers.
To them, Harvard was a golden pedestal, the final destination of anyone lucky enough to enter. They believed Derek should cling to it desperately, even beg for mercy. They expected fear, pleading, maybe tears.
Instead, he talked as though leaving Harvard was a minor administrative note.
Professor Lin adjusted her glasses.
"You wish to… withdraw voluntarily?"
"No," Derek replied. "I will leave. Voluntarily or otherwise."
The professors exchanged uneasy looks. Derek's detachment unsettled them. It didn't match their expectations of the "grateful scholarship student." Instead of being humbled, Derek sounded like someone who had already outgrown them.
Aldridge tried to regain control. "Mr. Morgan, you may be misunderstanding the severity of—"
Derek cut him off with a small bow of the head.
"I'm not misunderstanding anything. I simply need thirty days."
His tone was polite.
But his eyes were cold.
And something in that coldness unsettled even the most jaded of the professors.
In the end, they allowed it. Not because they respected him, but because they didn't believe he'd actually follow through. They assumed he'd come crawling back once the consequences sank in.
Derek left the hall without looking back.
The moment he stepped outside, the winter wind slapped against his face. He inhaled the icy air deeply, letting the cold fill his lungs. It wasn't freedom, exactly—but it was clarity.
He still had four weeks left in his transformation program. Four weeks of consistent, punishing workouts. Four weeks of eating thousands of calories a day—rice, pasta, chicken, eggs, anything he could afford that would help him grow. Four weeks of pushing his body until every muscle screamed.
Calisthenics in the morning.
Weights in the afternoon.
More calisthenics in the evening.
His entire world had narrowed into a simple equation:
Grow stronger. Earn more. Become untouchable.
Pandora continued running in the background, splitting funds across thirty shell companies, compounding profits every ten minutes while Derek broke down and rebuilt his body.
He didn't think about Chad and Veronica emotionally; the feelings weren't there. But intellectually, he thought about the inevitability of consequences.
They had dragged him through humiliation.
They had lied.
They had weaponized the institution against him.
Not out of righteousness.
But out of entitlement.
There was a difference.
Derek wiped sweat from his forehead after another brutal training session and stared at his reflection—just the faintest hint of muscle forming beneath the surface.
Soon.
Very soon…
Chad Powers and Veronica Sanders would regret ever crossing him.