The checkbook felt strangely formal in James's hand — like a relic from another era. Still, it was necessary. In 1995, paying tuition online was science fiction, and James wasn't about to try wiring thirty grand through some faxed form. He tucked the leather-bound booklet into his back pocket, thanked the manager once more for the rushed processing, and turned to glance back at the counter.
She was gone.
The girl — Charlize — wasn't there anymore. In her place stood a different teller, middle-aged, professionally indifferent, counting bills behind the thick glass.
James stood for a second longer than he meant to, as if maybe she'd step back into frame like a ghost from a paused memory. But nothing.
"Mr. Calloway?" the bank manager said gently beside him.
James blinked out of his thoughts.
"Yeah," he said. "Thanks again."
The manager walked him out with a flurry of final apologies for the earlier scene. James gave a polite nod, letting most of it wash over him. His mind was already elsewhere.
Outside, the city was bright with late-morning haze. He slipped on his sunglasses, got into his black Acura Integra, and fired up the engine. The smooth hum of the car steadied his thoughts as he pulled away from the curb, merging into light midday traffic. San Francisco rolled past him in waves of hills and steel, its skyline familiar now, like a backdrop he could navigate by instinct.
The drive down to Stanford was quick, just under an hour with no real congestion. James took I-280 south, the freeway cutting past low hills and the occasional burst of trees. The air shifted subtly the farther south he went — less fog, more sun. Somewhere near Palo Alto, the scent of eucalyptus hit the air, and James rolled down the window just to let it settle into his lungs.
Stanford's campus opened up like a different world. Broad avenues, red-tiled roofs, and sprawling oaks gave the place a tranquil elegance. It felt both ancient and forward-looking — a cathedral of ideas tucked between the tech giants rising on all sides of it.
He parked in a visitor's lot near the edge of campus, feeding quarters into a rusted meter, and grabbed the check from his glovebox. The thirty-thousand-dollar tuition draft looked strange in his handwriting, a flat black signature against such a large number. He smirked. It was more than his dad had made in a year teaching high school math.
The Student Financial Services Office was housed in a beige building with arched entryways and a tiled mosaic near the door. Inside, fluorescent lights and ceiling fans hummed above rows of desks and filing cabinets. A friendly clerk in her thirties looked up from her terminal as he stepped to the front of the line.
"Can I help you?"
"Yes," James said, pulling the check from his pocket. "I'm here to pay my full year's tuition."
The woman blinked, then smiled politely. "You're paying the full amount today?"
"Thirty thousand even," James said, handing over the check. "Should clear instantly."
She took it with a touch more reverence than usual, glancing down at the name and then back up at him. Recognition sparked faintly in her eyes, but she said nothing. She processed it quickly, typing in details, stapling a confirmation slip to a larger packet of papers.
"Alright, you're all set, Mr. Calloway. Here's your student ID and your receipt. Welcome back to Stanford."
He took the ID and receipt, folding them into his pocket. The plastic card had the year "1995-1996" stamped above a grainy photo of him, taken months ago. His hair was shorter back then, his expression a little less weathered.
James stepped out of the Student Financial Services Office, tucking his receipt and freshly issued student ID into the pocket of his shirt. The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the Stanford campus, and the air buzzed with the soft din of student voices, distant skateboard wheels, and rustling leaves.
As he passed the fountain plaza, a voice cut through the hum like a sudden gust:
"James! James! James!"
He turned, instinctively raising a brow.
A boy in a faded varsity jacket and sunglasses waved from across the walkway, half-jogging toward him with a cocky grin.
James blinked once, then smiled wide.
"Nick?"
Nick didn't wait for confirmation—he lunged forward and wrapped him in a bear hug. "Damn, isn't this the man of the hour? The genius of Silicon Valley himself!"
James chuckled, patting his old friend's back. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Enrolled," Nick said with a smirk. "Family's making me take 'law and ethics' or whatever makes politicians sleep better at night."
Of course. The Banfields. James knew the name came with a file folder full of rumors. A family embedded in security, politics, and the kind of private prison dealings that danced between legal and... less legal. There had always been whispers about gang ties, shady donations, bought influence. The Calloways hadn't liked the friendship back then, and they made no secret of it.
So James, being James, had stuck even closer to Nick.
Rebellious. Loyal. And maybe just a little self-destructive.
Still, as high school ended, paths diverged. James dove into computer science. Nick stayed behind, orbiting his family's shadowy empire. And after Stanford, James had left California altogether.
Now here he was—back in the sunlight, grinning beside the same reckless friend who'd once dared him to jump a train, hack a teacher's gradebook, and outrun three squad cars in the same semester.
"I heard the news," Nick said, walking beside him. "You and that ad company—DoubleClick, right? Killing it."
James smirked. "Trying."
Nick's expression turned sly. "Well, then—look. You're done with your tuition stuff?"
"Yeah. Just paid in full."
"Perfect. There's a party. Last one before school officially starts. Some of the old crew's gonna be there. High school legends like us, you know?"
James shook his head with a laugh. "Nick, I'm not going to a party."
"Oh, come on. Don't pull the billionaire recluse card on me. This is the last bash with the high school crew. Next time we party, it'll be with college kids. This one's different."
James gave him a sideways look. "Like you're going to stop partying in college?"
Nick raised a finger like a philosopher. "I didn't say stop. I said different crowd."
James exhaled, rolling his eyes. "Fine. Let me grab my car—it's in the parking lot."
Nick waved him off. "Forget it. The place is just a couple blocks over. I'll take you to your car after."
James hesitated for half a second, then nodded. "Alright. Lead the way."
They walked toward the curb where a black two-door BMW sat idling. The moment the door opened, a girl in a red bikini top leaned forward from the back seat, sunglasses perched on her head, and a drink in hand.
She flashed a smile. "Hello there."
James smiled back. Cool. Easy. "Hello, beautiful."
Nick slid into the driver's seat with a grin.
The car pulled off down the road, music pumping, sun setting behind them—old ghosts in the rearview mirror, and a night ahead that promised trouble, laughter, and just enough chaos to remind James that life wasn't all code and capital.