The morning after the storm was colder than anyone expected.
The air smelled of wet dust and crushed dreams as students trudged toward Royal Crest High.
Except Fred.
Fred walked alone, his thin hoodie still damp from last night, the icy wind slicing through the fabric like knives.
His mother's fever hadn't broken.
There was no breakfast.
There was no bus fare.
Only the brittle hope clinging to the back of Fred's mind like a dying flame.
He moved quietly, sneakers scraping against broken sidewalks, trying to stay invisible as he always did.
The sun didn't rise for boys like him.
It merely hung above the city — a witness to all the silent wars they fought.
---
At school, the world continued spinning without him.
Fred slipped through the metal detectors at the entrance, his stomach a hollow drum, his backpack a stitched-together joke against the gleaming designer bags the other students carried.
The school corridors smelled of expensive perfume, fresh waxed floors, and money.
Conversations buzzed around him — but none included him.
Jasmine Taylor — 17, rich, brown-skinned with perfect curls and full lips always glossed to perfection — laughed about her latest $5,000 shopping spree in Milan.
Leon Wright — 18, dark and dashing, heir to a billion-dollar oil company, boasted about sneaking into the city's hottest 21+ nightclub with a fake ID.
Tiffany Lane — 16, pale as porcelain, fierce green eyes, captain of the cheer team — flipped her hair and planned her birthday bash at a private island resort.
Fred kept his head down.
His heart carried bruises invisible to everyone but himself.
--
In History class, Mrs. Goldstein — 52, strict but fake-friendly, short bobbed hair, always dressed in second-hand designer — announced a mandatory group project.
Fred felt his stomach drop.
She started pairing students off by calling out names:
> "Victor and Jasmine."
"Leon and Tiffany."
And then, the fatal blow:
> "Fred... you'll be with Melissa Vane."
A gasp went around the room.
Melissa Vane — the untouchable princess of Royal Crest, who once claimed she was allergic to "poverty" — shot a look of pure horror at Mrs. Goldstein, then a sneer of disgust at Fred.
> "Do I have to?" she hissed loud enough for the class to hear.
The class erupted into muffled laughter.
Fred wanted to disappear.
Mrs. Goldstein — desperate to keep the school's elite happy — quickly amended:
> "Actually, Melissa, you can work with Carla. Fred... you'll work alone."
Louder laughter now.
Victor smirked.
Tiffany openly rolled her eyes.
Leon whispered something cruel that Fred couldn't hear but didn't need to.
He knew the words already.
He wore them like invisible chains.
---
At lunch, Fred didn't bother going to the cafeteria.
He found an empty classroom instead — dark, silent, smelling of old chalk and forgotten dreams.
He sat alone at a battered desk, biting into the only thing he had — a crushed piece of bread wrapped in yesterday's newspaper.
He tried to read the headlines through the grease stains:
"CITY COUNCIL APPROVES NEW LUXURY HOTEL"
"CORRUPTION SCANDAL SWEEPS THROUGH ROYAL ELITES"
Different world.
Different rules.
Fred chewed slowly, every bite tasting like shame.
Outside, he heard the sounds of the others: laughter, footballs thudding against the ground, music blasting from someone's Bluetooth speaker.
Living.
Breathing.
Existing.
Fred felt like a ghost.
---
That afternoon, Fred received a summon from the front office.
His heart pounded.
Had something happened to his mother?
No.
Worse.
It was a "routine health check" — code for humiliating poor kids.
In the school's sick room — white walls, sharp smell of disinfectant — Nurse Mathews, a woman in her late fifties with thick glasses and a tight bun, checked Fred's weight.
He stood silently on the scale as she frowned.
> "You've lost weight again, Layton," she said, scribbling something in her chart. "Eating enough?"
Fred lied, nodding.
The truth would only lead to pity — and pity was even worse than cruelty.
She peered at him over her glasses.
> "You're almost underweight for your age. Be careful. Hunger affects brain performance."
Fred smiled a hollow smile and left.
No money.
No food.
No options.
---
After school, Fred didn't rush home.
He wandered.
Past glittering showrooms where brand-new cars spun on turntables — golden Ferraris, black matte Lamborghinis, pearl-white Rolls Royces with diamond-studded badges.
Each price tag Fred saw was a slap in the face.
He passed Royal City Mall, where teenage girls with designer bags strutted in and out, laughing into iPhones newer than his wildest dreams.
Boys swaggered in varsity jackets, draped in jewelry bought with daddy's dirty money.
Fred's hands were cold in his pockets.
His head hurt from hunger.
His chest ached from everything he couldn't say.
He kicked a pebble along the sidewalk like a child too tired to dream.
---
At home, the situation had worsened.
The electricity was cut.
No power. No heat. No hot water.
His mother, Rachel, coughed so hard her whole body shook.
Fred found her curled in a ball under thin blankets, her forehead burning with fever.
He sat beside her, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead, whispering useless comforts.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to punch the walls.
He wanted to fall into the ground and never get up.
Instead, he closed his eyes and made a silent vow:
> "Whatever it costs... however long it takes...
I will make them see me.
I will make them regret ever looking down on me."
But in that moment, there was no triumph.
Only pain.
Only hunger.
Only a 17-year-old boy, sitting alone in the dark, clutching the only family he had left, with no one in the world to hear his broken heart.
--