"Oops! The Chicken Boy Is The Billionaire's Son"

Chapter 8: "As You Wish!"

The silence in Lecture Hall 402 was so thick you could choke on it.

Ninety students stared at Nathan Walters. A few seconds ago, they were howling with laughter, treating him like the punchline to the biggest joke on campus. Now, they were just confused. The kid with the bruised jaw and the cheap, faded t-shirt had just told their professor he was going to be fired.

At the front of the room, Mr. Zain blinked. Once. Twice. Then, a harsh, incredulous bark of laughter ripped from his throat.

"Fired?" Zain asked, his voice cracking slightly with sheer disbelief. He looked around the room, making eye contact with Mark Epstein, as if seeking confirmation that he had just heard correctly. "Did you all hear that? The janitor is going to fire me."

Mark leaned back in his chair, a cruel grin spreading across his face. "Careful, Prof! I hear he’s got high-level connections in the poultry industry."

The class erupted in laughter again, emboldened by Mark.

Zain slammed his hand down on the wooden podium. The loud smack instantly silenced the room. He wasn't amused anymore. His face flushed a dark, ugly red. He felt profoundly disrespected. This wasn't just a student talking back; this was the lowest rung of the campus ladder daring to challenge his authority in front of the Principal's son.

"Are you out of your mind, Walters?" Zain snapped, stepping away from the podium and pointing a dry-erase marker at Nathan's chest. "Are you drunk on chicken poop? Is that it? The fumes from the utility closet finally got to your brain?"

Nathan didn't flinch. He just stood there, his hands resting easily at his sides.

"I am a tenured-track professor at Braxton College, with 20 fucking years of experience," Zain continued, his voice echoing through the mic, thick with venom. "I hold two master's degrees. You hold a mop. You don't have the right to speak to anyone in this room unless they ask you to empty their trash can, let alone threaten my career. Your audacity is actually hilarious. It would be funny if it wasn't so incredibly pathetic."

Nathan let the professor finish. He let the insults hang in the air for a few seconds.

"Mr. Zain," Nathan said calmly. "It would be best if you apologized right now. Save yourself the humiliation of losing your job forever."

Zain’s jaw tightened. The absolute lack of fear in Nathan’s voice was unnatural, and it made Zain furiously uncomfortable.

"Get out," Zain hissed, his arm shooting out to point at the heavy oak doors. "Get out of my classroom. NOW! You are going straight to the Dean's office, Walters. And I’ll be calling ahead to make sure you're permanently expelled before you even reach her desk. Now get out!"

Nathan gave the professor one last, chilling look of pity. He didn't look at Mark. He didn't look at Amanda. He just nodded in agreement.

"As you wish," Nathan said quietly.

He turned around and walked out the door. He didn't slam it. He just let it click shut behind him, leaving the lecture hall in a strange, uneasy quiet.

The hallway was empty and bright. Nathan walked slowly toward the administrative wing. As he walked, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. It was an old model, the screen cracked in the bottom left corner—a phone he had bought used for forty dollars three years ago.

He pulled out the slip of black paper his father had given him the night before. There was a single, ten-digit number embossed in gold on the back.

Nathan typed the numbers into his cracked screen and hit dial.

He held the phone to his ear. It didn't even complete a full ring. Less than three seconds passed before the line clicked open.

"Young Master. Greetings."

The voice on the other end was smooth, deep, and carried an undertone of absolute, lethal efficiency. It didn't sound like a secretary. It sounded like a man who ended wars before breakfast.

"I was waiting for your call," the voice continued smoothly. "My name is Dwayne. I am your newly assigned Personal Assistant, here to serve your every directive. How may I assist you this morning, sir?"

Nathan stopped walking. He looked out the hallway window at the sprawling green campus of Braxton College. Yesterday, this place felt like an insurmountable mountain. Today, it felt like a sandbox.

"For your first job, Dwayne," Nathan said, his voice dropping into that same cold, flat register he had used in the classroom. "I want you to call the Dean of this school. Her name is Mrs. Shawn. Ensure Mr. Zain, a lecturer in Computer Engineering, is fired indefinitely. He crossed borders he never should have crossed."

There was no hesitation on the line. No questions about university policy, no asking for a reason, no warning about how hard it is to fire a professor.

"Consider it done, boss," Dwayne said.

The line went dead.

Nathan slipped the phone back into his pocket and resumed his walk.

Four minutes later, he arrived at the Dean’s office. It was located in the oldest, most expensive part of the campus. Thick mahogany doors, plush carpets, and walls lined with portraits of wealthy donors. Nathan knew this office well. He had spent hours dusting the baseboards and polishing the brass nameplates on the weekends.

He knocked twice on the door marked DEAN OF STUDENTS - EVELYN SHAWN.

"Come in," a sharp, impatient voice called out.

Nathan pushed the door open. Mrs. Shawn was sitting behind a massive, cluttered desk, typing furiously on her laptop. She was a stern-looking woman in her fifties, wearing sharp reading glasses and a silk blouse that cost more than Nathan's entire semester tuition.

She didn't look up immediately. "Just leave the files on the chair, Brenda, I'll sign them when…"

She stopped typing and looked over her glasses. Her eyebrows shot up toward her hairline.

She recognized the young man standing in her doorway. The whole faculty had received an email about the "incident" at Demo Day. She saw the bruised face, the cheap clothes, and the complete lack of a cleaning cart.

"Nathan," she said, her tone instantly flattening into annoyance. "Aren't you supposed to be in class? Or, given yesterday's... performance, at home?" She glanced at the clock on her wall. "It's barely ten in the morning. It is not time for cleaning yet. You should know the schedule by now. The utility closets don't unlock until four."

Nathan closed the door behind him. He didn't stand nervously by the entrance like he used to. He walked right up to the heavy leather chairs opposite her desk and sat down without being invited.

Mrs. Shawn’s eyes narrowed. "Excuse me. What do you think you're doing?"

"Good morning, Mrs. Shawn," Nathan said, leaning back into the leather. "I’m here to request that Mr. Zain be fired immediately."