The walk to school feels… surreal.
Dobyns-Bennett High stands ahead—large, structured, alive.
Students move in clusters. Conversations overlap. Lockers slam. Laughter echoes.
Noise.
Energy.
Life.
I step inside.
And immediately—
I don't belong.
Not really.
Faces pass by.
Strangers.
Yet something inside me reacts before I can think.
Recognition.
That guy skips class every Friday.That girl leads debate club.That one… doesn't like Daniel.
That One really have a nice ass shape
Memories not mine—
But usable.
"Hey, Dan!"
I turn.
A guy waves casually.
My body responds before I think.
"Yeah."
A nod.
Natural.
Seamless.
…Terrifying.
I keep walking.
Adjusting.
Blending.
*****
By lunch, the weight of it all settles into something manageable.
I sit across from Richard Ford.
My best friend.
Sharp eyes. Clean posture. The kind of presence people trust without knowing why.
But today—
"You good, Dan?" he asks, brows slightly furrowed.
I lean back in my chair.
"What makes you ask that?"
He studies me for a moment before answering.
"You've been spacing out all class. More than usual."
More than usual.
So even Daniel had a habit of drifting off.
Convenient.
"Just tired," I reply casually.
Richard doesn't look convinced—but he lets it slide.
For now.
A few seconds pass before I shift the conversation.
"So," I say, glancing at him, "what's your plan after this?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"After graduation?"
"Yeah. University? Something else?"
That question—
Gets his attention.
Completely.
He leans forward slightly, eyes sharpening with focus.
"University, obviously," he says. "Political science. Maybe law after that."
Of course.
That fits him perfectly.
In Daniel Past Memory, Richard Ford isn't just smart.
He's a planner.
His voice lowers slightly, more serious now.
"We all have limits, Dan. They told us we can leap, but not for people like us; it is limited to a few, even."
"If you want to change anything in this world… you need power. And the cleanest way to get it is through politics."
"And university gets you there?" I ask.
"It's the starting point," he replies. "Without it… you're just another guy with opinions."
(Oh if You See Peak Twitter Era My Friend)
I nod slowly.
"Sounds like you've got it all figured out."
"I have to," he replies. "Not everyone gets second chances."
No pride.
Just pressure.
Richard isn't just driven—
He has to be.
Single parent. Limited income. No safety net.
Everything he wants—
He has to build himself.
"What about you?" he asks. "You going to college?"
I pause.
Then shrug.
"Maybe I'll just work."
He frowns.
"That's it?"
"You know how it is," I reply. "My family's not exactly loaded either."
He nods slowly.
"Yeah…"
For a moment, both of us understand something without saying it.
Limits.
Then I tilt my head slightly.
"What if money wasn't a problem?"
He freezes.
He looks at me.
"…What?"
"What if," I repeat calmly, "you didn't have to worry about money at all?"
Silence.
His eyes meet mine.
Richard stares at his tray for a moment, like he's deciding how honest he wants to be.
Then he exhales.
"If that were true…" he says slowly, thinking it through, "I'd go all in."
I stay quiet.
Let him talk.
His eyes sharpen.
Brighter.
Hungrier.
His fingers tap lightly against the table, mind already racing ahead.
"I'd go to a top university. Not just any college—I'm talking about one that actually matters. The kind that opens doors before you even knock."
"Political science first. Then law, maybe. Or public policy. Something that puts me close to how decisions are actually made."
His voice sharpens.
"I'd join the student council immediately. Not just as a member—I'd aim for leadership. Build a record early. Show people I can organize, lead, influence."
He leans forward slightly.
"I'd create a profile no one could ignore."
A pause.
"If I want to survive in politics," he continues, "I can't just be smart. I need a story. A clean one. No gaps, no scandals, no weak points people can attack."
His eyes meet mine.
"And you need people."
"Connections?" I ask.
"Not just connections," he says. "Allies. People who trust you. People who owe you. People who believe in what you're building."
A brief pause.
Then, softer—
"I want to be someone who actually changes things, Dan."
"I'd go all in."
That line—
It's real.
Not ambition.
Not fantasy.
Reality shaped into a goal.
I don't realise I'm a Best friend with Mister Frank Underwood in the making.
(The House of Cards)
Silence.
A small smile forms on my face.
And that's exactly why—
He's worth the investment.
****
School ends.
The noise fades as I walk home alone.
Step by step.
Thought by thought.
Money.
Value.
Duplication.
I can create it.
Endlessly.
But raw money is dangerous.
Too sudden.
Too visible.
This world runs on systems.
And I need to respect that—
Or break it carefully.
I stop walking.
Look at my hand.
Flex it slightly.
Everything has a value.
Which means—
Money isn't the goal.
Control is.
I don't fund Richard directly.
That's suspicious.
Instead—
I create a source.
A sponsor.
A scholarship.
Something small. Local. Real enough to exist.
Clean money.
Not duplicated money—
Converted money.
Circulated.
Washed through reality itself.
I exhale slowly.
A plan begins to form.
Step one—small amounts.Step two—distribution.Step three—legitimacy.
No rush.
No mistakes.