The day after the yacht disaster, Fred woke up to find a single, stark message in his inbox:
> "You should have stayed in your place, poor boy."
No sender.
No trace.
Just venom poured into letters.
His hands trembled slightly.
But that wasn't the worst of it.
By midday, Fred's quiet life was ripped apart like tissue paper.
---
It started in the Music Hall.
Fred had gone there hoping for a distraction — maybe a quiet spot to drown in melodies, maybe find comfort in piano keys.
Instead, he found his name pasted all over the entrance doors.
Handmade posters printed in color:
A photoshopped image of Fred on his knees, worshipping money.
Fake screenshots of him begging rich girls for sponsorship.
Fake messages saying he sold drugs to freshmen.
At the bottom of every poster:
> "Pity Party for the Poorboy! Donations accepted: $0.01"
And a QR code leading to a fake donation page.
Fred stood frozen, the blood draining from his face.
Around him, students pointed.
Laughed.
Whispered.
Even the ones he thought were different — like Haley Adams (19, dark-skinned, short curly hair, aspiring singer with a fierce smile) — looked away, pretending not to see him.
Someone — many someones — had decided to make him campus entertainment.
And no one — no one — stood up for him.
---
When Fred tried to tear down the posters, security guards showed up.
Fat, bored men in oversized uniforms, hands already on their tasers.
> "You're vandalizing school property," one sneered.
"Come with us."
Fred tried to protest.
Tried to explain.
But truth meant nothing here.
Money ruled.
Power ruled.
The guards cuffed him roughly, dragging him across the campus lawns, past laughing crowds, beautiful girls filming with their phones, and rich boys jeering from polished balconies.
It was a public execution.
Without a blade.
Without mercy.
---
Later that afternoon, Fred finally found a chance to check his phone, hidden behind the guards' back.
He looked for Ivy's messages.
For a call.
Anything.
But her profile was gone.
Deleted.
No trace.
As if she had never existed.
And with her disappearance, Fred realized something chilling:
> Maybe Ivy had been a trap too.
A beautifully wrapped noose.
Set by invisible hands.
Tightening around his neck.
---
By nightfall, Fred was sitting in a small police station outside town.
A crumbling, piss-scented building where corrupt officers played cards and extorted bribes from trembling civilians.
One officer, fat and balding, with sweat stains under his armpits, leaned over Fred with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
> "So. You're the big shot rich girls' toy boy, huh?"
He laughed harshly, the sound like gravel.
> "You'll need money to get out of here, boy. Lots of money."
Fred said nothing.
He had no money.
No favors.
No one coming for him.
Then, through the fog of smoke and despair, a familiar voice drifted through the station:
> "I'll post his bail."
Fred looked up.
It was Layla Monroe.
Again.
Wearing a blood-red dress that clung to her curves like a lover.
Her lips were crimson.
Her nails sharp.
Her smile pure poison.
Fred's heart sank.
Because Layla's help always came with chains.
---
Outside the station, under the broken streetlight, Layla lit a cigarette and blew smoke into Fred's face.
> "You owe me now, darling," she said sweetly.
Fred stayed silent.
Biting the inside of his cheek till he tasted blood.
> "You'll pay me back. One day. One way or another."
She flicked the cigarette butt at his feet and sauntered off, hips swaying.
Leaving Fred alone under the sickly flicker of the dying light.
Alone, again.
And this time, deeper in debt than he could ever repay.
---
As Fred stumbled back to campus late that night, clutching the remains of his dignity like a torn flag, another shadow was already moving behind the scenes.
Professor Julian Vance — mid-40s, tall, sharply dressed, beloved by the administration — stood in the Dean's office, whispering poison:
> "Fred Kane is a disruption. An infection. A liability."
The Dean, a rotund man who cared more about donations than students, nodded solemnly.
> "We'll... handle him quietly."
Vance smiled.
Because he had plans for Fred.
Plans that involved humiliation, degradation, and final destruction.
The war was just beginning.
And Fred didn't even have armor.
---
That night, sitting alone in his tiny room — walls cracked, mattress thin, wind howling through broken windows — Fred stared at the black phoenix card Ivy had left him.
Still cold.
Still silent.
Still promising damnation.
Fred whispered to himself:
> "I'll survive. No matter what. Even if it kills me inside."
And somewhere deep within his soul, a small flame flickered to life.
Weak.
But alive.
For now.
---