Royal Crest High seemed almost peaceful.
Birds chirped lazily above the freshly cut fields.
The cafeteria buzzed softly with morning chatter.
Teachers lounged in their staff room, pretending to work while sipping hot coffee.
But beneath the surface, the entire school vibrated with a toxic excitement.
The Fred Disaster had gone viral overnight.
Clips from the talent show flooded TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
> #"PoorBoyFails"
#"SubwaySinger"
#"FredTheFlop"
Meme pages, even ones outside the city, shared the humiliation.
Fred's face — eyes desperate, microphone dead — became a punchline.
Students snickered in hallways.
Teachers offered fake sympathy.
Even the janitor, Mr. Duke, gave him a pitiful smile.
Fred walked through it all like a dead man.
---
That afternoon, Fred sat alone in the dusty school library, trying to disappear into books no one read anymore.
> "Just finish this cursed year," he muttered. "Just finish..."
Then, it happened.
He heard it first — the loud whisper of shocked gasps spreading through the halls.
He knew that sound.
Trouble.
His phone buzzed.
He checked.
One message from his only childhood friend, Mila Reyes — a half-Filipina, half-Italian girl with short fiery hair and a nose ring, the only person who sometimes defended him.
> Mila: "Bro... Someone leaked your family's debt records. It's everywhere."
Fred's heart stopped.
> No. Please no.
He stumbled out into the corridor.
Screens lit up everywhere:
Photos of his family's eviction notice, his mom's court summons for unpaid medical bills, even a police report about his brother's shoplifting charge.
Private, ugly details.
Now... public.
Everyone knew.
Everyone.
--
Students stared as Fred passed.
Some smirked.
Some looked away, pretending pity.
Others whispered loudly:
> "Imagine being that broke."
> "Maybe he'll start selling candy after school."
> "His mom's a waitress, right? How sad."
Fred pushed through the crowd, head down, fists clenched.
But the final blow came when he reached the main courtyard.
---
Victor Simmons — the spoiled son of a hotel empire — stood atop one of the stone benches, megaphone in hand, dressed in a ridiculous tuxedo.
Behind him was a giant screen they usually used for school announcements.
Today?
It played a slideshow of Fred's family problems like it was a comedy show.
Music played.
> "It's a hard-knock life... for him..."
Students howled with laughter.
Sabrina DeVille leaned against a pillar nearby, arms folded, face unreadable.
Tiffany Lane had tears running down her cheeks — from laughing too hard.
Victor bellowed:
> "Attention everyone! Fundraiser for Royal Crest's number one charity case: Freddy the Flop! Who wants to donate a penny?"
He threw coins onto the ground.
Students imitated, tossing coins and candy wrappers toward Fred's feet.
Each plink of metal hitting pavement was like a bullet.
Fred stood frozen.
Crushed.
Shaking.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to run.
He wanted to disappear.
But he did none of those.
He slowly, painfully, bent down...
And picked up a penny.
Pocketed it.
And walked away — every step fueled by the kind of rage that births kings or monsters.
---
Later, hiding behind the gym, Fred slumped against the cold concrete wall.
Mila found him.
Her knuckles were bruised — she had punched two boys laughing too hard.
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
> "I'm so sorry," she choked out.
"I'm so sorry, Fred... they're monsters. You don't deserve this."
Fred stared at the sky, empty inside.
> "Maybe I do," he whispered.
"Maybe I was stupid to dream."
Mila grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her.
Her brown eyes blazed.
> "Listen to me. You're going to destroy them. All of them. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, Fred, they'll be begging for mercy — and you'll be the one who decides if they get it."
He didn't answer.
But deep inside?
A seed cracked open.
And something vicious, something unstoppable, began to grow.
---
Meanwhile, across town in a dimly lit bar reserved for "special guests," a meeting was taking place.
Professor Louis Grayson — a slimy man with thinning grey hair and greedy eyes — sipped his scotch and studied the files in front of him.
Beside him sat Mr. Leonard Vance, owner of several underground "investment" companies.
Photos of Fred... and Fred's hidden musical talent... were spread across the table.
> "He's raw," Vance said.
"Untapped. Desperate."
Professor Grayson grinned.
> "Perfect. We offer him a 'scholarship'... tie him into one of our 'special contracts.' Talent like that? Can make a lot of money... if it's owned properly."
They clinked glasses.
Fred had no idea yet.
But the wolves had smelled blood.
And they were coming for him.
---
That night, Fred sat alone on his rickety balcony, overlooking the flickering city.
The eviction notice pinned to the peeling wall behind him.
A single dirty penny in his palm — a trophy from his humiliation.
The coin gleamed under the moonlight.
Fred squeezed it so hard his knuckles whitened.
He whispered a new promise — not just to himself now, but to the whole damned world:
> "I'll turn every insult into an empire. I'll make them wish they killed me when they had the chance."
The city didn't hear.
But destiny did.
And it stirred.
---