The Giant Campus God

Afternoon. The campus courtyard is busy with the usual midday rush — students weaving between tables, backpacks swinging, conversations overlapping.

Then the ground seems to shift.

THUD, THUD, THUD.

Ashton’s long stride cuts straight through the crowd without a moment of slowing. People instinctively part for him, some glancing up with that familiar mix of awe and caution. Some with adoration and fanaticism. He’s talking on his large phone, half-laughing at something, completely unconcerned with the space he takes up.

A sudden, soft crunch.

He glances down almost absently. Under the sole of his brand white sneaker is someone’s open notebook — pages crumpled, a half-finished assignment and carefully highlighted notes now flattened into the pavement. Along with the notebook, the backpack and bicycle were mercilessly crushed. The owner freezes a few steps away, staring up at him with both pure horror and fury.

But Ashton doesn’t stop. He lifts his foot, looks at the ruined pages for half a second, then meets the student’s eyes with a calm, slightly bored expression.

“Maybe don’t leave your stuff in the middle of my walkway next time.”

No apology. No pause. Just that slightly annoyed, matter-of-fact tone, like the whole thing is barely worth commenting on.

He steps fully off the scraps of someone's personal belongings and keeps walking toward the group of girls waiting on the open grass area. They light up the moment they see him — phones already out, voices rising in excitement.

One of them calls his name. Ashton raises a hand in a lazy wave, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he answers:

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. Some people just have zero awareness.”

He doesn’t look back.