Inside the Crest: The Fall of Eli Kingston

The gates of Ivory Crest University towered like the iron jaws of a fortress. For most students, it was the beginning of a dream. For Eli Kingston, it was a punishment dressed in privilege.

The black Lexus car came to a stop just at the campus entrance. Its windows were tinted enough to block out the world, not that Eli needed shielding. He didn’t care who saw him. The silence in the car lasted for forty minutes. Not awkward. Just… deliberate.

His father stared straight ahead from the passenger seat, hands folded in his lap like a politician waiting for a photo shoot.

“You don’t talk much anymore,” Eli said flatly, not bothering to look at him, his father exhaled, lips pressed into a line. “There’s nothing left to say. You’re here. Make it count.”

“Touching.” The door clicked open. The chauffeur Marcus, a man who had known Eli since he was six gave him a small nod and opened the trunk.

Eli stepped out into the crisp September air. Overhead, clouds clung to the sky like ash. The campus stretched before him: cobbled walkways, Victorian buildings crawling with ivy, and lampposts that looked like they’d whisper secrets if you leaned close enough. Every brick of Ivory Crest screamed money and legacy, the kind of place where names mattered more than merit.

He adjusted the collar of his black coat and grabbed the single leather suitcase Marcus placed beside him.

“I don’t want to get a call about you,” his father said from the open window.

Eli turned, smirked. “Then don’t answer your phone.”

The car peeled away.

He stood alone now, surrounded by other freshmen and returning students, their parents hugging them, handing them tote bags and warnings.

Eli’s presence made a ripple. Whispers trailed him like perfume.

“Is that…?”

“Eli Kingston? No way.”

“He got into Crest?”

“Figures. Money talks.”

He’d expected that, anticipated it even, "let them talk, let them guess" he said.

He moved through the crowd with the practiced indifference of someone who didn’t need to impress anyone. His gait was confident, sharp, laced with something bordering on danger. His dark eyes scanned the sprawl of students, but no one caught his interest. Not yet.

Campus signs pointed toward the freshman dorms, sleek redbrick buildings with names like Lancaster, Abernathy, and Kingston Hall. The last one made his stomach twist.

He hadn’t asked for a building to bear his family’s name. He hadn’t asked to be enrolled here either. His father had pulled strings, cleaned up messes, made sure the Kingston heir didn’t completely fall off the map after last spring’s scandal.

One suspension. One ruined press appearance. One very public punch thrown at a senator’s son.

And now… here he was.

As he approached the residential quad, Eli caught sight of his dorm. He was assigned to Lancaster Hall, third floor, room 317. He took the stairs two at a time, passing students dragging lamps, boxes, and guitars. He carried nothing but his suitcase. No posters. No photos.

The hallway smelled like fresh paint and ambition. His room was already open. One side of it was cluttered with signs of life, clothes on the bed, a gaming console plugged in, a poster of a band he didn’t recognize tacked up. His new roommate was already here.

“Yo!” The guy popped his head out from behind the closet door. Tall, lean, Black, with a wild afro and a wide grin. “You must be Kingston. Damn. You don’t even knock?”

“I live here too.” Eli set his bag down.

The guy extended a hand. “Name’s Zayn. Zayn Carter. Roomies.”

Eli gave a slow once over, then a half-shake. “Cool.”

Zayn laughed. “You’ve got serious 'trust fund menace' energy. Let me guess — East Coast, private school, kicked out at least once?”

Eli arched a brow. “Twice.”

Zayn whistled. “Damn. At least you’re honest.”

Eli shrugged off his coat and hung it with care. “Only when it entertains me.”

Zayn watched him, curious but not intimidated. That was rare.

“You know anyone here?” Zayn asked.

Eli tossed his phone on the desk. “Not really. But they know me.”

Zayn laughed again. “Cocky.”

“No. Just… observant.”

Outside their window, a bell chimed. Students were gathering around the quad for the traditional Welcome Ceremony. Eli had no intention of joining them, not until he saw the envelope.

It was sticking halfway out of his mailbox in the Lancaster Hall lobby. White, unmarked, crisp. The kind that didn’t come from Admissions or family.

Just one word on the front, typed neatly in black ink:

Kingston.

He hesitated.

Then, with practiced calm, he slipped it out and tore it open.

Inside, a single sheet. Two lines.

“You don’t belong here.

Your family’s sins are already bleeding through.”

Eli’s pulse didn’t quicken. His expression didn’t change. But inside, something clenched.

He looked around the empty lobby. No one. Just muffled voices drifting from the quad and the distant echo of laughter. Still, he scanned the shadows.

Nothing.

He refolded the note, slid it into his coat pocket, and walked back upstairs — slower this time, thoughtful.

Someone was playing a game. And if they wanted a reaction, they’d have to try harder.

But deep down, Eli knew: this was just the beginning.