It started with a single ping.
Samantha Blake's manicured finger hovered over the "upload" button on her burner account.
One click.
The video of Miss Adriana Voss kissing and whispering love promises to David Kane shot through Royal Crest High like wildfire.
Within fifteen minutes, it was everywhere:
Students in hallways gasping, covering their mouths.
Screens lighting up in classrooms.
Teachers desperately trying to confiscate phones.
Principal's office line ringing off the hook.
By noon, the once-prestigious Miss Voss was summoned, handcuffed by the local police, her tear-streaked mascara smearing down her cheeks.
David Kane was dragged into a private office, his father threatening lawsuits against the school, against the town, against the sky itself.
Royal Crest High was burning.
And Samantha?
She simply tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, flashed her perfect, icy smile, and walked away like an angel with bloodied hands.
---
Meanwhile, Fred walked back into school grounds.
A different Fred.
Colder. Harder.
His black hoodie was up, his jeans torn, his worn-out backpack slung over one shoulder.
Yet people stared.
Not because they admired him.
Because he was now... known.
Freak.
Failure.
Beggar.
Scandal boy.
Whispers slithered behind him like snakes.
> "He only got a contract because he made a fool of himself."
> "I heard he's someone's pet project."
> "Probably sleeps with someone powerful."
Fred ignored it.
Mostly.
But every word dug deeper into his flesh.
Every cruel laugh was a fresh cut across his heart.
He had money now — or would soon — but he had lost something far greater:
Respect. Innocence. Trust.
---
That evening, Fred received another text.
> Unknown: "Meet at Midnight Club. 7 PM. Dress sharp. Come alone."
Fred almost deleted it.
But something gnawed at him.
Curiosity?
Desperation?
Fate?
He borrowed a black suit from the school's forgotten costume closet — two sizes too big — slicked his hair back with water, and made his way to the infamous Midnight Club on the seedy edge of town.
---
The bouncers at the door barely glanced at him before waving him through.
Inside, Midnight Club pulsed with dirty neon lights, drowning bass beats, and the scent of alcohol and broken dreams.
Girls in short dresses and high heels twirled around businessmen twice their age.
Drugs changed hands in dark corners.
Laughter. Screams. Deals.
At the VIP section, Fred was ushered into a private booth where Layla Monroe, 19 — stunning with bronze skin, emerald eyes, and a body that could start wars — waited, legs crossed elegantly, a glass of champagne in hand.
Layla was one of the top 10 beautiful girls from Royal Crest Campus, a legend even among the spoiled elites.
Rumors said she was "sponsored" by three different billionaires.
Layla gave Fred a slow, predatory smile.
> "So you're the charity case everyone's whispering about," she purred.
Fred stiffened.
> "I have a scholarship. That's all."
She laughed — a melodic, cruel sound.
> "Scholarship? Honey, you're now in a game you don't even understand yet."
She leaned closer, her perfume dizzying.
> "You want to survive? You'll need someone like me. Someone who knows how to play."
She offered him a deal:
Attend secret elite parties.
Befriend the "right" people.
Make alliances.
In exchange, she would protect his name... and his future.
Fred hesitated.
His soul already felt weighed down by invisible chains.
Did he really want more?
But the image of his mother's coughing fits… the eviction… his classmates' cruel laughter…
> "Deal," he said hoarsely.
Layla's smile widened.
Like a spider welcoming a fly.
> "Welcome to the real Royal Crest, darling."
---
Across town, in a penthouse apartment dripping with gold and glass, Sebastian Holt watched Fred's name trend on his private feed.
His jaw clenched.
His father — Senator Holt — had called him that afternoon.
> "Fix it. I don't want poor trash ruining Royal Crest's image. Especially now that the elections are coming up."
Sebastian slammed his glass against the table.
Fred.
Fred was now a threat.
And threats had to be eliminated.
Sebastian opened his burner account.
And started plotting.
---
Fred staggered back to his broken apartment near midnight.
Tired.
Sick.
Trapped.
In his pocket: a black card Layla had slipped him — a pass to the secret society events only the rich and dangerous attended.
On his wrist: a bruised handprint from some drunken CEO who had grabbed him roughly at the club, laughing that "charity boys make the best pets."
In his heart: a growing void.
He collapsed on his bed.
The ceiling cracked and leaking.
The paint peeling.
The smell of mold curling in his nostrils.
And he cried.
Again.
Silently.
Because no matter how strong he acted…
He was still a broken boy trying to survive in a world built to crush him.
And the game had only just begun.
---