"Dad? What are you doing?" Little Caezar asks, his voice filled with confusion as he watches his father with wide eyes.

His father smiles, a cold, knowing grin, but doesn't answer.

"DAD! Please stop!" Caezar screams, his voice breaking as tears pour down his face.

Without a word, his father turns to face him. His eyes meet Caezar's, and in his hands, he holds a large, bloodied object.

"Come, I'll show you," his father growls, a dark excitement in his tone. He pulls Caezar closer, revealing the lifeless body of a rat, its skin peeled away in strips, still twitching slightly from the brutal act.

For a moment, Caezar's sobs subside. His face twists in something unrecognizable — a chilling, sinister smile spreading across his lips.

His father's eyes gleam with pride as he watches his son. "You understand now."

Classes proceed as normal, the hum of chatter filling the room as the first period finally ends. As Caezar sits at his desk, lost in thought, his eyes glance around the classroom. They lock with the eyes of another student — someone who looks strikingly similar to him. At first glance, they could be mistaken for twins, yet Caezar instinctively knows that the differences between them run far deeper.

During the break, the atmosphere shifts suddenly. A chair flies past Caezar's head, narrowly missing him. A shout cuts through the air, rough and full of aggression.

"Who the fuck is the rat that was an MMA champ in the teens' all-tourney?"

Caezar turns his attention to the source of the chaos — a tall, imposing figure rising from his seat. The room seems to shrink around him as the man strides toward the one who made the challenge.

"That's me. Go back to your classes." The tall figure's voice is calm, but there's a terrifying weight behind his words.

The man who threw the chair, seemingly unnerved by the stranger's presence, attempts a half-hearted punch — more out of fear than defiance. In an instant, the punch is deflected, and the man is sent flying across the room, crashing into a row of desks.

The tall figure turns back to the room, his expression casual, but his eyes lock with Caezar's.

"I'm Oliver, by the way," he says, his voice awkward, as if he's trying to smooth over something.

Caezar, still processing the chaos, tilts his head slightly, confused. "Do you even know me?" he asks, his tone dripping with arrogance and disbelief.

Oliver fidgets, a hint of discomfort in his eyes. "I... I just wanted to make sure you're alright," he stammers, realizing how strange his introduction must seem. "You were almost hit by that chair."

Caezar's brow furrows. Oliver's words don't quite fit with the domineering image he had just projected. But for some reason, Caezar can't help but feel a fleeting sense of curiosity — why did this stranger feel the need to introduce himself, let alone worry about something as trivial as a flying chair?

Oliver, noticing Caezar's silence, shifts uncomfortably. He's not good with words, but the guilt of almost hurting someone, even unintentionally, gnaws at him. He wasn't expecting this awkward exchange, but he couldn't just walk away.

As the class watches, whispers start to circulate. "Did you hear? Caezar, that guy, he's so full of himself — thinks he's better than everyone else. He's just... well, he's not even good-looking. Can you believe he's got the nerve to act like that?"

Caezar catches some of the murmurs, but they barely register. He couldn't care less about what people think or say about him. The whispers that fill the air are as irrelevant to him as the people who are gossiping. He's used to it by now. They talk, and he doesn't listen.

His gaze never wavers from the front of the class, his expression still smug and indifferent. The rumors swirl around him, but he dismisses them as the meaningless chatter of inferior people who would never truly understand him. He knows they see him, but he doesn't need them to understand him. That's not the point. They'll never rise to his level, and that's all that matters.

Instead, Caezar's mind is already spinning with plans — big ones. He's not some idle, arrogant kid who's simply waiting for his time to pass. No, he has a purpose. He's been watching, studying, and taking notes. As his eyes casually sweep over his classmates, his brain processes everything. Their mannerisms, their personalities, their weaknesses. They think they know him, but he's been quietly observing them all along.

Caezar reaches into his bag and pulls out a small, worn notebook. He flips it open to a fresh page and starts scribbling. Names. Observations. A few notes about who sits where, who talks to whom, who has power, who doesn't. Every little detail is important.

Oliver, the tall figure who had just intervened, gets his own entry. "Oliver — Strong, but awkward. Might be useful." Caezar underlines it twice. He writes with a sense of cold precision, not caring whether Oliver even notices his eyes occasionally flicking over to him.

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Caezar doesn't need to care about the rumors. What matters is the game, and he's already several moves ahead. He watches the interactions between his classmates — how some cower, how others puff their chests out in a failed attempt to seem important. Every glance, every action, every slip-up is logged. He's building a mental map of the entire school, and soon enough, his notebook will be full of names, secrets, and opportunities.

As the break comes to an end, Caezar closes the notebook with a sharp snap and slips it back into his bag. He gives one last glance around the room, his eyes sharp and calculating. The whispers? He couldn't care less. They're nothing but background noise. His eyes are already on the bigger picture.

But Oliver does notice. Despite Caezar's disinterest, Oliver's eyes are always on him. At first, it's subtle. A lingering glance during class, a quiet observation when Caezar is talking to someone. Over the weeks, it becomes more apparent. Oliver stares at him as if trying to figure him out, as if he sees something in Caezar that no one else does.

One day, after school, Oliver approaches Caezar during a quiet moment in the hallway. Caezar doesn't even look up from his phone, too absorbed in his thoughts to care.

"Hey," Oliver says, his voice tentative, almost nervous. "I, uh... I've been thinking. We should hang out sometime. You know, like... get to know each other better."

Caezar doesn't respond immediately. He finishes typing something on his phone, still not looking at Oliver. Then, without even glancing up, he speaks in his usual detached tone.

"Do you even know who you're talking to?"

Oliver flinches, but he's persistent. He shifts slightly, standing there awkwardly. "I just thought... I mean, we're kind of alike, right? You know, we could—"

"Alike?" Caezar interrupts, finally lifting his eyes to meet Oliver's. His expression is icy, unamused. "Don't flatter yourself."

Oliver looks away, clearly embarrassed. But he doesn't give up. Over the next few days, he tries again, in small ways. A casual greeting in the halls. Offering to help him with something. Even sharing notes when he thinks Caezar might need them. But every time, Caezar remains distant, his arrogance wrapping around him like armor.

He never asks for help, never acknowledges Oliver's presence beyond the bare minimum. His mind is always focused on something else, something far bigger than anything Oliver could offer. He has plans, schemes, and this kid, this strange reflection of him, doesn't fit into any of them.

And yet, Oliver doesn't seem to notice the coldness in Caezar's responses. He still stares at him, still seeks out ways to connect, as though there's a part of Caezar that Oliver believes is worth reaching.

Caezar, however, is too busy — too consumed by his notebook, by his plans, by the game he's already playing with the world around him. He watches Oliver's attempts from a distance, registering them but never responding in kind. As much as Oliver tries to bond with him, Caezar is only focused on one thing: controlling everything in his orbit.

However, one day, Caezar's sense of superiority is suddenly challenged in a way he hadn't expected.

It's the end of the school day, and Caezar is walking out of the building when he spots a group of popular students gathered around outside. He's used to their stares, their whispers, and their dismissive glances. But today, something feels different. One of the taller students, a jock who has always looked down on him, steps in front of Caezar as he tries to leave.

"Hey, you. Got a problem, weirdo?" The jock sneers, and before Caezar can react, a push lands on his chest, sending him stumbling back.

Normally, Caezar would've smirked and walked away, his arrogance giving him an unshakable confidence. But this time, something unexpected happens. He tries to retaliate, but his body doesn't respond the way he expects. His punches are weak, clumsy. The jock grabs his wrist and twists it behind his back with ease, pinning him to the wall.

The crowd laughs.

Caezar's chest tightens with frustration. "Get off me," he hisses through gritted teeth, trying to free himself.

The jock smirks. "Not so tough now, are you?"

Caezar feels a deep, humiliating sting. This isn't how it was supposed to go. He's been studying, calculating, planning his rise to the top. But here, in this moment, his appearance — his inability to fight, his weakness — becomes painfully apparent. The rumors, the whispers, they're all true. He may be arrogant, but that alone isn't enough to make him powerful.

As the jock finally lets go and pushes him away with a laugh, Caezar stands there, frozen. His head spins with a mix of anger and realization. He needs to change. If he wants to conquer the school, to truly rise above everyone else, his appearance needs to match his confidence. And more importantly, he needs to learn how to fight.

For the first time, Caezar admits to himself that he's not invincible — not yet. But he can be. He will be.

And with that realization, the blueprint for his transformation begins.

Caezar's arrogance didn't emerge out of nowhere. It was carefully cultivated, shaped by his upbringing and the figure that loomed over his childhood: his father.

Born into wealth, Caezar was never forced to face the struggles that most children did. His father, a successful entrepreneur, built an empire from nothing. His company was a household name, one that everyone admired. To the outside world, he was the epitome of success — charming, polished, and deeply respected. He had a way with people, a charisma that drew others in, making them believe in his sincerity.

But behind the curtains, the truth was far more complex.

His father was a man of extremes. On the surface, he was kind, giving, and seemingly generous, always ready to lend a hand, a smile, or a well-timed word of encouragement. His wealth allowed him to donate to charities, help struggling businesses, and provide a picture-perfect family life. Caezar grew up in a lavish home, surrounded by luxury and comfort, never wanting for anything.

But the reality behind his father's facade was much darker. The kindness his father showed to the public contrasted sharply with the cold, calculating, and often cruel behavior behind closed doors. Caezar had witnessed it firsthand, though as a child, he didn't fully understand what was happening.

His father's obsession with control and dominance extended to every aspect of his life — especially the household. He would often spend hours locked away in his study, making deals, strategizing, building his empire further. But there was another side to him, one that Caezar slowly to adore

The man who would hug Caezar tightly after a school play, who would lavish him with praise for the smallest accomplishments, was the same man who indulged in darker hobbies when no one else was around. Caezar remembered the night his father had taken him outside into the garden, a small smile on his face.