Hell's Kitchen Neighborhood School housed grades 1 through 12 across 36 classes, with over a thousand students.
Alvin was now the principal of this school. To secure the position, he had called a meeting with Hell's Kitchen's gangs. After some friendly negotiations and a fair election, Alvin was duly appointed principal of the neighborhood school.
As for the principal appointed by the Department of Education? Who cared?
Alvin's first act in office was to negotiate with Kingpin. You're a gang leader, the underground kingpin of Hell's Kitchen. Isn't it only right for you to contribute to your hometown's education system? And this couldn't be a one-time donation—it had to be a long-term commitment. Thus, Kingpin made a generous annual contribution of $5 million, proudly becoming a school board member.
With funding secured, hiring teachers wasn't hard—even in Hell's Kitchen. After all, it was still a school. A headhunting firm was hired to track down top-tier educators currently unemployed. Once identified, they received earnest invitations: competitive pay, room and board, insurance. You might not know Alvin, but you'd better know Kingpin.
As for the students? Having endured his son's schooling up to the fourth grade in his past life, Alvin knew exactly how a proper school schedule worked.
Taking inspiration from certain rigorous academic models, the timetable was set: morning reading at 7:30 AM, classes at 8, a break from noon to 1:30 PM, dismissal at 5 PM, and voluntary evening self-study starting at 7.
Those who didn't want to participate had to request leave from Principal Alvin. Unless someone died or their house burned down, requests were usually denied. Not that Alvin was often around to approve them anyway—he was a busy man.
Standing at the school gates, Alvin watched as students tiptoed past him like mice avoiding a cat.
Listening to Vice Principal Nelson Norris—the former principal—praise his methods filled him with satisfaction.
Why should my son have had to study from dawn till dusk while these brats got to run around carefree? From now on, this was Hell's Kitchen's very own prep school.
JJ, standing guard with his shotgun, silently pitied the kids. This isn't a school—it's a damn boot camp for children.
Doom loved accompanying Alvin to school. He found the work fascinating. Pinning down a student, listening to their terrified shrieks, then confiscating their interesting little trinkets—it was all great fun.
In just a short while, Doom had already amassed a pile of loot: snacks, toys, and more. A line of kids, each holding some dangerous item they'd been caught with, stood before Alvin, awaiting judgment.
Alvin flipped a sleek butterfly knife in his hand, eyeing the 13- or 14-year-old white kid in front of him. "Class? Name? And why the hell are you bringing a knife to school?"
The kid jutted his chin out. "Phil. Ninth grade, Class 1. It's for trimming my nails."
JJ, watching nearby, snorted. Since when do you need a half-foot blade to trim nails?
Alvin hated that defiant look. He smacked Phil across the back of the neck, making the kid yelp and crumple to the ground, clutching his head.
Even after the hit, the kid wasn't fully cowed. He didn't dare fight back, but his glare was pure defiance. You're glaring at the principal now?
"Detention. Two days. Nelson, give him the school rules—he's copying them 100 times." Alvin's voice was icy. If school discipline doesn't work, prison methods will.
The defiant Phil was dragged away by the burly JJ, howling in protest. The remaining kids, thoroughly intimidated, quietly admitted their mistakes and accepted punishments ranging from 10 to 50 copies of the school rules.
But the last kid—a chubby black boy—left Alvin stumped. Gritting his teeth, Alvin demanded, "Name. Class. And who the hell told you to bring weed to school?"
The boy shrank under his gaze. "Lavon. Sixth grade, Class 2. My dad told me to bring it."
Alvin's voice turned dangerously quiet. "And who the hell is your dad?"
Lavon trembled. "Mr. Nathan, my teacher… he gets bad headaches. He's nice to me. So my dad said to bring him some weed to help."
Alvin's fist clenched. He kicked a metal trash can, sending it flying. His chest burned with frustration.
This kid's dad is probably a dealer. And his way of thanking the teacher is sending his son to school with weed for headaches? What kind of twisted shit is this?
He couldn't bring himself to punish Lavon. Instead, he ruffled the boy's hair. "Teachers see doctors for headaches. Don't bring weed to school again—or you'll join Phil in detention. This is confiscated. Now get to class."
Lavon scurried into the school like a pardoned convict.
Noticing Alvin's foul mood, Nelson chuckled softly. "It's already a vast improvement. A few years ago, this place might as well have been a training ground for future gang recruits. Can you believe kids used to sell drugs openly on campus? Now? It's better than I ever imagined."
Alvin paused, then said coldly, "What's the status on that land request with the city? We need to break ground on those dorms ASAP. Lock these kids inside the school, keep them off the streets. I'm sending every last one of them to college."
Nelson nodded. "Nearly settled. Hell's Kitchen has plenty of vacant lots. The plot behind the school is large enough for two new academic buildings, two student dormitories, and one faculty residence."
He hesitated before adding, "Though… the dormitory designs. Aren't they a bit cramped? Six students in a 30-square-meter room seems—"
Alvin cut him a sideways glare. *You've clearly never seen rural boarding schools. Be grateful I'm not stuffing them in barracks-style bunks. Six per room? Some Chinese universities don't even meet that standard. 95% of Hell's Kitchen families are dirt-poor, and I'm charging zero tuition. What more do you want?*
Catching the dangerous glint in Alvin's eye, Nelson swiftly backtracked. "But it's workable. At minimum, we're providing a safe environment where they can focus on studies. History will remember your contributions to this institution." The silver-templed old fox delivered the line smoothly.
The flattery mollified Alvin. He gave Nelson's shoulder an approving pat. The man had been principal here for 15 years—he knew his way around. His morals might be questionable, but he had a silver tongue and, more importantly, the right connections in the Department of Education.
At the end of the day, running this school still required the DOE's support—funding, equipment, all the bureaucratic red tape. Nelson excelled at navigating those waters.
"Alvin, you goddamn bastard! What the hell have you done?"
A raspy voice barked from behind them.
Alvin rubbed his nose. Now here comes someone decidedly less pleasant.