The next morning, Fred dragged himself into the Economics 101 lecture, wearing the only decent clothes he had left — a plain navy T-shirt, old jeans, and sneakers that had seen better years.
The classroom was massive:
Tiered seating rising up like a Roman arena.
Hundreds of students spread across the chairs, half-listening, half-scrolling through their shiny phones.
Giant windows let in bright shafts of morning sun, making dust particles dance in the air.
Fred sat at the very back, head low.
Invisible.
Or so he thought.
At exactly 8:13 am, the lecture doors slammed open.
Two security guards marched inside — armed, grim, no nonsense.
Behind them, Professor Julian Vance (45 years, salt-and-pepper hair, athletic, arrogant posture) strode in, his polished shoes clicking ominously on the floor tiles.
> "Fred Kane," Vance said, his voice cold enough to freeze fire.
"You are under investigation for academic fraud and drug possession."
The entire class turned.
Phones lifted.
Cameras rolled.
A storm Fred couldn't escape.
--
As Fred was led down the stairs, handcuffed again, his eyes darted desperately across the room.
Looking for an ally.
Someone. Anyone.
And then he saw her.
Melanie Brooks —
20 years old, caramel skin, slim with hazel eyes,
wearing a stylish green sweater,
his lab partner in Economics,
the girl who once laughed at his jokes,
the one who once said, "You're not like the others, Fred. You're real."
She stood.
Tears shimmering in her eyes.
And yet...
She said nothing.
Did nothing.
Turned her face away.
And Fred felt the knife drive deeper into his gut.
---
In the Dean's office, Fred sat across from Professor Vance and the Dean himself, a mountain of "evidence" laid out between them:
A folder "proving" Fred had paid someone to take his exams.
A bag of white powder "found" in his locker.
Testimonies from anonymous students claiming Fred "bragged" about selling to freshmen.
All fabricated.
All perfectly designed.
Fred opened his mouth to defend himself.
> "It's not mine — someone framed me — I swear—"
But the Dean cut him off.
> "Enough. We've decided your fate."
A thick envelope slid across the table.
Inside: an official letter of suspension.
> "Effective immediately."
No trial.
No appeal.
No mercy.
--
When Fred stepped back into the sunlight, he was no longer a student.
He was an outcast.
A ghost.
Students parted when they saw him, like he carried a disease.
Even the ones who had once smiled at him — girls like Cynthia Rivers (21, gorgeous with long black hair, heavy curves, and a playful attitude) — now looked through him like he didn't exist.
Worse were the ones who laughed.
Pointed.
Spat on the ground as he passed.
---
Fred climbed the metal stairs to the abandoned rooftop of the old engineering building, his secret place to breathe when life crushed him.
There, under the wide brutal sky, he broke down.
Sank to his knees.
Fist pounding against the rusted floor.
Tears spilling down his face.
> "Why me?" he choked out.
"What did I do wrong?"
And somewhere deep down, the cruel answer echoed back:
> You were born poor.
---
Fred dialed Ivy's number again.
And again.
And again.
Each time:
> "The number you are trying to reach is no longer available."
He tried texting Layla.
No reply.
He tried reaching his high school friends.
Blocked.
No family to call.
No one left.
Alone.
Utterly.
Brutally.
Alone.
--
That night, as Fred wandered near the slums bordering the wealthy side of town, a black SUV with tinted windows pulled up beside him.
The window slid down.
Inside sat Donovan Craig (35, mixed race, bodybuilder type, sharp suits, sharp temper) — a known fixer for the political elites and corrupt businessmen.
His smirk was chilling.
> "You got no home, no school, no friends. But I got a job for desperate boys like you," he said.
Fred stared into the abyss of Donovan's eyes.
He knew whatever "job" he offered wouldn't be clean.
Wouldn't be safe.
Might kill him.
But what choice did he have?
---
Fred said nothing.
But inside, a storm was brewing.
If the world wanted to crush him —
If fate wanted to brand him a villain —
If the rich kids and fake friends wanted to laugh at his grave —
> Then he would become something else.
Something they would never forget.
Something that would make them regret ever knowing his name.
Even if he had to crawl through hell.
Bleeding.
Burning.
Broken.
Fred Kane was not done yet.
Not even close.
---