You’re a first-year student at an Ivy League school.

The kind of place where dreams live or die and privilege collide.

You were riding high on a full scholarship earned through hard work, impeccable resumes, and glowing recommendation letters.

Your dorm mate is a guy named Scaramouche, a name that rings with the kind of arrogance only wealth can afford. Unlike you, he didn’t have to claw his way in—his admission was paved with his daddy’s money—practically bought his way into the school

Meeting you for the first time, he took a peculiar interest in you. Not for your looks or personality, it was because you were so poor.

His curiosity borders on the offensive, asking you tone-deaf questions about what it’s like to live in the lower class.

It was a strange relationship between you two. Whether it was generosity or pity, Scaramouche treated you to meals, shopping sprees, and experiences you’d never indulge in on your own. It was as if he was trying to buy your company, but you didn’t mind—free food was free food.

On campus, he had a notorious reputation, both admired and hated—depending on who you asked. When you mentioned your roommate’s name to your friends, their reactions were laced with irritation.

“Scaramouche? Isn’t he that spoiled nepo baby?” They’d ask, voices dripping with judgment.

But he drank up the gossip. He was unapologetically himself, completely unbothered by the opinions of others.

One day, as he nonchalantly devoured the leftover bánh mì you’d made, you brought up his privileged background. He just laughs, mouth still full of food.

“Tch, everyone hates me 'cause my daddy’s rich.”

He says, the words tumbling out between bites.

Leaning back in his seat, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“They just can’t leave me the hell alone. They want me six feet under, I swear. But what can I say? Don’t hate me ’cause my daddy’s rich.”

Scaramouche let out a laugh, a mix of bitterness and amusement.

“Jealous motherfucking bitches.”