THE BROKEN DREAMS

Fred sat on the cracked concrete steps of his dorm building, a thin hoodie pulled tight against the bitter night air.

His duffel bag — all that was left of his life — sat at his feet.

Inside:

Two shirts, both torn.

A broken phone.

Seventeen dollars in crumpled bills.

Nothing else.

The campus lights flickered.

Laughter echoed from somewhere far away — parties Fred would never be invited to.

He was invisible.

He was disposable.

And the whole world seemed to agree.

---

Out of the darkness, footsteps.

Fred stiffened.

A figure approached —

Jade "J.J." Johnson (21, African-American, 5'7", fierce green eyes, sculpted athletic body, senior student, star of the women's football team).

Her braids swung behind her like a lion's mane.

She wore ripped jeans, a leather jacket, and an expression somewhere between curiosity and anger.

> "You Fred?" she asked, voice sharp.

He nodded warily.

J.J. dropped a heavy bag at his feet.

> "Old uniforms, some sneakers, a blanket. You'll freeze out here, dumbass."

Fred blinked, stunned.

No one... no one had been kind to him in months.

> "Why?" he croaked.

J.J. shrugged like it was nothing.

> "Because I was you once. Now get your sh*t together before the wolves eat you alive."

Without waiting for thanks, she turned and stalked away, disappearing into the shadows.

---

Two days later, hungry and desperate, Fred found himself outside "The Velvet Room" — an underground nightclub notorious for its dark dealings.

Neon lights buzzed.

Smell of weed, sweat, cheap perfume filled the air.

People danced like demons inside.

Fred hesitated.

He had heard the rumors:

Drug dealers recruited desperate freshmen here.

Bribes exchanged hands under the dancefloor.

Professors partied with students — for the right price.

And somewhere inside was Damian Voss (26, half-German, half-Kenyan, ruthless drug kingpin posing as a "music promoter," lean with cold blue-gray eyes, dreadlocks, tattoos peeking from his sleeves).

Fred swallowed hard and stepped inside.

---

He found Damian sitting on a velvet couch surrounded by half-naked girls, bottles of Hennessy on the table.

Damian's cold eyes locked onto Fred instantly.

> "New blood," he said, amused.

"You lost, little lamb?"

Fred shook his head.

> "I need money. I'll do anything."

The word anything hung heavy in the air.

Damian smiled slowly — a shark's smile.

> "Anything, huh? Good. You'll start tonight."

He tossed Fred a small black pouch.

Inside: tiny pink pills stamped with a dollar sign.

> "Sell these at the freshmen music competition tomorrow. Quietly. No mistakes."

Fred's heart pounded.

He knew what the pills were: Bliss — a new synthetic drug sweeping through campus parties, promising happiness but delivering hell.

He wanted to refuse.

Wanted to run.

But his stomach growled.

And seventeen dollars didn't last forever.

--

The next day, Fred stood at the edge of the music hall.

Students buzzed around:

Singers warming up.

Guitarists tuning strings.

Girls laughing, adjusting makeup.

Boys bragging about after-parties.

Fred moved through them like a ghost.

Whispered transactions in bathroom stalls.

Quick exchanges behind vending machines.

No one noticed.

No one cared.

Until—

> "Hey! You! Stop!"

Campus security.

Two heavyset guards with radios crackling.

Fred ran.

Heart slamming against his ribs.

He bolted across the quad, cutting between fountains and picnic tables.

Behind him, radios screamed:

> "Student in possession! Male, black hoodie, black jeans!"

He ducked into a maintenance building, panting.

He had seconds.

Fred spotted an open vent shaft and crawled inside, cutting his palms on rusted edges.

He hid there for three hours, pressed into darkness, listening to the world search for him.

--

When Fred finally climbed out, dirty and bleeding, he found a note tucked under his duffel bag outside the dorm.

A single sentence, written in blood-red ink:

> "Next time, we take someone you love."

Fred froze.

There was only one person who had ever shown him kindness recently.

J.J.

His heart twisted.

If Damian thought Fred was a risk... he wouldn't hesitate.

Fred sprinted across campus — to the women's dorms.

He didn't care about curfew.

Didn't care about being arrested.

He had to warn her.

He had to save her.

But when he reached the building...

Smoke poured from the windows.

Sirens screamed.

Students ran in panic.

And somewhere inside that burning building —

Fred knew —

someone he cared about was trapped.

And it was all his fault.

---