Fred stumbled into his tiny bedsitter just before dawn.
The sun wasn't up yet, but the streets were already noisy with the early hum of campus life.
Vendors setting up.
Students dragging themselves to early classes.
The distant clatter of construction workers banging metal.
Fred's room smelled like instant noodles and old dreams.
Peeling paint on the walls.
A cracked window taped with plastic.
A single, sagging mattress thrown on the floor.
Three shirts hung crookedly from a broken clothesline strung across the room.
He collapsed onto the mattress, not bothering to change.
His mind was heavy.
But sleep didn't come.
Instead, he lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling, replaying the humiliation from yesterday over and over until it felt like a physical weight on his chest.
Why did he even try?
Why did he even dream?
--
Bzzz.
Bzzz.
His phone buzzed under his hip.
Fred groaned, dragging it out with dead hands.
One notification.
Just one.
> Unknown Number: "Your life is about to change. 5 PM. Rooftop, Business Block B. Come alone."
He sat up sharply.
The business block?
On campus?
What was this?
Another trap?
Another humiliation?
But something about the message… it felt different.
Urgent.
Inevitable.
Fred stared at it for a long minute, heart pounding in a chest that hadn't dared to hope in a long time.
Part of him screamed to delete it.
Ignore it.
But another part — the part Mrs. Armstrong had nurtured — whispered:
> Maybe this is your door.
Maybe.
---
The Campus Was Alive, and Fred Wasn't
At noon, Fred finally dragged himself outside.
He pulled his faded hoodie low over his face.
Kept his head down.
The world outside was colorful, noisy, glittering with life — but he didn't feel like he belonged to it.
Groups of girls laughed in short skirts and fake designer bags, their perfume clouding the air.
Boys leaned against shiny cars with custom number plates like "PRINCE01," "4EVERBLESSED," and "MONEYTALKZ."
Engine revs.
Expensive sneakers.
Chains and flashy watches.
Fred passed them like a ghost.
Nobody noticed the boy with dusty shoes and secondhand jeans.
Nobody cared.
He heard snippets of conversations:
> "Did you hear? Mercy is pregnant. AGAIN. This time it's the history professor!"
> "Bro, I'm telling you, that club last night was mad! Those lesbians? Fire!"
> "I just bought a Benz, bruh. Fresh import! You?"
> "Sponsors are the way, girl. I'm telling you. This broke life isn't for me!"
It was all too loud.
Too fake.
Too much.
Fred ducked into a deserted alley, breathing heavily.
This wasn't his world.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
But something in that message promised something more.
Something real.
Or something worse.
---
By 4:30 PM, Fred was already hiding near Business Block B.
It was one of the newer buildings on campus.
Glass walls.
Steel beams.
Slick and soulless.
It reeked of money — and corruption.
Students bustled in and out, some in expensive business suits even though they were barely nineteen.
Fred watched them.
Noticed everything.
The way one rich kid flicked his car keys arrogantly.
The way two girls with perfect weaves whispered and pointed at a freshman's cheap sneakers.
The security guard at the door didn't even glance at them — only at the ones who looked poor.
Fred hated it here.
But he needed answers.
At 4:57 PM, he slipped into the building through a side door, heart hammering.
The halls were polished, the floors gleaming.
On the walls: huge photos of smiling alumni who now "owned successful companies."
Fred didn't believe it for a second.
Most of them probably paid their way through — like everything else here.
He found the stairwell.
Steeled himself.
Started to climb.
Each step heavier than the last.
---
The door to the rooftop creaked when he pushed it.
Cold wind slapped his face.
The city stretched out before him — tall buildings, neon lights blinking to life, smog hanging like a dirty curtain.
Fred stepped out cautiously.
Empty.
At first.
Then — movement.
A figure emerged from behind the water tanks.
A man.
Tall.
In a dark suit too clean for a place like this.
Dark skin, perfectly shaved head, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.
He looked maybe forty.
Professional.
Dangerous.
He smiled — or maybe smirked — at Fred.
"Fredrick Otieno?" he asked, voice smooth as oil.
Fred's stomach dropped.
Nobody called him that.
Only people from his past.
People he'd left behind.
"Yeah," Fred croaked.
The man nodded approvingly.
He pulled something out of his jacket — a small black folder.
And tossed it onto the ground between them.
Fred didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
The man's voice dropped, almost like a threat:
> "Inside is everything you need to change your life. But know this, Fred. Once you open it... there's no going back."
The wind howled.
The sun slipped lower, bleeding red into the sky.
Fred stared at the folder.
Heart racing.
Mouth dry.
What was in it?
Money?
Secrets?
A contract?
His whole body screamed to run.
But he couldn't.
His feet were glued to the rooftop.
His life teetered on the edge of something massive — something terrifying.
Slowly, he knelt down.
Fingers trembling.
Reached for the folder.
And the second he touched it — the man vanished.
As if he had never been there at all.
---