THE BROKEN DREAMS

Fred climbed into the back seat of Donovan Craig's black SUV, the door slamming shut behind him like a coffin lid.

Inside, the leather smelled of expensive cologne and danger.

Next to Donovan sat Raymond "Ray" Mendez (28, Latino, ex-convict, tattoos crawling up his neck like black vines, sharp eyes always darting around).

Ray didn't bother greeting Fred.

He just slid a manila envelope across the seat.

Fred opened it with shaking hands.

Inside:

Photos of famous freshmen students.

Information: full names, parents' backgrounds, bank details, secrets.

Price tags attached to each.

> "We need dirt," Donovan said simply, lighting a Cuban cigar.

"You're gonna get close to them. Party with them. Drink with them. Find their weaknesses. Then we own them."

Fred's stomach turned.

> "You're asking me to ruin them," he whispered.

Donovan shrugged.

> "No different than what they tried to do to you, boy. Eat, or be eaten."

---

Fred's first assignment was Sophia Carter (19, golden skin, lush brown curls, honey-colored eyes, daughter of a top senator).

She was hosting a secret yacht party — only for the "perfect ones" at Lakeside Marina.

Fred had no suit, no money, nothing.

Ray tossed him a black card and a Versace suit still in the wrapper.

> "You work for us now," he said.

---

The yacht was monstrous — a three-deck luxury vessel named "The Silver Mirage."

Girls with shimmering dresses and boys with crisp suits spilled champagne into the air like it grew on trees.

DJ booths pumped deafening music.

Neon lights flashed across the dark water.

Smell of expensive perfume, cigars, and ocean salt mixed in the air.

Fred pulled at the collar of the expensive suit.

He felt out of place, like a rat sneaking into a royal banquet.

But he spotted her — Sophia — laughing too hard, tipsy, holding a cocktail, wearing a skin-tight red dress that showed off her hourglass figure.

Perfect teeth.

Fake friends around her.

A princess trapped in a glass castle of lies.

---

Fred approached her slowly.

Sophia's eyes flicked to him — and something curious sparked there.

> "New blood," she purred, smiling lazily.

She grabbed his hand and dragged him onto the dance floor.

Bodies pressing in.

Heat.

Noise.

Sophia leaned in and whispered against his ear:

> "You're cute. Dangerous cute."

Fred felt the bile rise in his throat.

He knew what he was doing.

He hated it.

He hated himself.

But he danced anyway.

Fake smile.

Fake laugh.

Fake Fred.

Because survival wasn't free.

--

Hours later, when Fred slipped away to breathe, he found himself on the yacht's third deck.

Empty.

Quiet.

Moonlight spilling on the marble floor.

And there — in a shadowy corner — he saw something he wasn't meant to see.

Sophia Carter —

sobbing against the railing, mascara running down her face.

At her feet lay a blood-stained syringe.

And two other students — Chris Langley (22, heir to a tech empire) and Tasha Wu (20, billionaire's daughter, petite and doll-like) — laughing cruelly as they filmed her on their phones.

> "Stupid b*tch can't handle her hit," Chris snorted.

> "Post it to Insta. Get those likes," Tasha giggled.

Fred's fists clenched.

He knew he was supposed to record this.

Capture Sophia's shame.

Deliver it to Donovan.

Get paid.

Survive.

But something inside Fred — something still human — broke.

---

Fred lunged forward, snatched the phones out of Chris and Tasha's hands, and smashed them against the marble.

> "WHAT THE F*CK, BRO?!" Chris roared.

Fred ignored him.

He scooped Sophia into his arms — she weighed nothing, trembling like a bird — and carried her down the stairs.

Ignoring the stares.

Ignoring the cameras flashing.

Ignoring the future he was burning.

He carried her off that cursed yacht.

Carried her to the sidewalk under the cold, judging stars.

Called an ambulance with trembling fingers.

Waited beside her until the paramedics took her away.

No thanks.

No cheers.

No medals.

Only more enemies.

---

The next day, Fred found his dorm room door wide open.

Inside:

His mattress slashed to ribbons.

His clothes shredded and soaked in bleach.

His few textbooks torn apart.

On the wall, spray-painted in angry black letters:

> "TRAITOR."

No bed to sleep on.

No clothes to wear.

No future.

Just Fred, standing in the ruins of the last things he owned.

Alone.

Again.

---