Fred's first assignment was small.
Simple.
Deadly.
Victor handed him a brown envelope outside the Sports Complex at midnight.
Inside: tightly packed pills, disguised under the innocent label "vitamins".
> "Take it to Hall B, Room 403. Name's Nickson. He'll be waiting."
"Don't open the envelope. Don't speak more than you need to. Don't act scared."
Victor's voice was calm.
Rehearsed.
Fred nodded.
But inside, he was shaking so badly he could barely walk.
As he crossed the dark, nearly empty campus, the world seemed different:
Shadows clung tighter.
Every whisper of wind sounded like a siren.
Every step felt like a countdown to something irreversible.
When he knocked on Room 403, a bulky man with a messy beard opened, looked at him once, grabbed the envelope, and shut the door without a word.
Fred's palms were sweaty.
His heart hammered like it wanted to escape his chest.
But he had done it.
His soul had taken its first true wound.
And there would be no healing.
---
The next morning, the campus exploded into chaos.
It was the first day of the Luxury Car Parade, an unofficial event where rich students showed off their rides.
The parking lot sparkled:
Audis.
Mercedes Benz.
Lamborghinis.
Range Rovers.
BMW i8s.
Girls in mini dresses and expensive heels flocked around the cars, snapping selfies and live streaming:
> "Omg! Check out Chantel's new G-Wagon!"
"Is that Ken's Ferrari?!"
License plates flashed like battle medals:
"QUEEN01"
"BIGB0$$"
"P4STOR" (ironically parked next to a car blaring rap music about sin.)
Fred stood far away, watching the glittering parade.
No one noticed him.
No one cared about the boy in worn-out sneakers and faded jeans.
Not today.
Not ever.
---
In the dusty halls of Block D, in the "poor student" lecture rooms, things were different.
Classes were packed.
Students squeezed three per broken desk.
The air smelled of sweat, old books, and despair.
Professor Mwangi, the corrupt lecturer known for sleeping with desperate students, strolled into class twenty minutes late — wearing a Rolex and dark sunglasses.
> "Good morning, peasants," he said jokingly, and some students actually laughed.
Fred kept his head down.
He needed to pass.
He needed to graduate.
Even if the world was rotten.
Even if knowledge now came wrapped in sarcasm and dirty offers whispered after class.
He heard two girls gossip behind him:
> "You heard Professor Mwangi got Sharon pregnant?"
"No way! I thought it was Damaris!"
Fred's stomach twisted.
This wasn't learning.
This was survival.
---
Later that day, Victor found Fred again.
This time, outside the Music Building, where students practiced songs for the upcoming Music Competition.
Victor wasn't alone.
Two of his "lieutenants" flanked him:
Kevin: Short, wide, always chewing gum, with small, cruel eyes.
Sean: Tall, bony, scarred knuckles, a silence that was more terrifying than yelling.
Victor smiled as Fred approached.
> "You passed the test. Good."
He tossed Fred a small black box.
Inside: A cheap burner phone.
> "You'll get texts. Locations. Jobs."
Fred stared at the box, feeling the last tiny splinter of his old life snap.
Victor's voice dropped to a whisper:
> "Welcome to the real world, Fred. There are no heroes here. Only predators... and prey."
And Fred...?
Fred didn't even know what he was becoming anymore.
---
Meanwhile, Lina sat alone at a high-end coffee shop downtown.
Expensive lattes.
Gold-dusted pastries.
Fake smiles from fake friends.
Across the table, her "fiancé" — George Karani, 26 years old, rich heir to a political dynasty — was talking about wedding plans she had never agreed to.
Venue: A five-star hotel only accessible by helicopters.
Guest list: 200 politicians.
Dress code: Royalty-only.
Lina stared out the window.
Dreaming of running away.
Of being poor but free.
Instead, she smiled and nodded.
And died a little more inside.
> "It's just easier," her mother had said.
"You'll thank us later."
Would she?
Would she really?
---
That night, Fred returned to Dina's hostel room, a thousand invisible bruises under his skin.
Dina was playing slow R&B on a cheap speaker, sipping cheap vodka from a chipped cup.
She looked up at him, eyes glazed.
> "You're not you anymore," she said quietly.
Fred didn't answer.
He dropped the burner phone onto the cracked desk.
He sat down on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest.
And for the first time since he had entered campus, Fred cried.
Silent.
Bitter.
Broken.
The kind of crying that doesn't make noise, but leaves scars inside the soul.
---