THE RISE OF DAVID LANCASTER

The cab rolled to a stop in front of a worn-down apartment complex, its tires crunching against the gravel-strewn pavement. The driver barely spared me a glance as I dug into my pocket, fishing out the last few crumpled bills I had for the ride. It wasn’t much, but it got me home. I handed him the money, murmured a quick “Thanks,” and stepped out into the early morning chill.

The street was quiet—eerily so. The distant hum of the city had softened into a lazy murmur, and the streetlights flickered, casting elongated shadows against the cracked sidewalk. I adjusted my bag over my shoulder and trudged toward the building, exhaustion clinging to my limbs like a second skin.

Reaching the door of my tiny apartment, I pulled out my keys with fingers that felt heavier than they should have. The metal scraped against the lock as I twisted it open, the familiar creak of the old wooden door greeting me like an old companion. Stepping inside, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

The apartment was just as I had left it—small, dimly lit, and suffocatingly quiet. A single bed shoved against the wall, a wobbly desk littered with books and empty coffee cups, and a flickering lightbulb that barely did its job. Not that I cared. At this point, I was used to it.

It was midnight. Another sleepless night. Another day of exhaustion waiting for me.

With a tired sigh, I dragged myself toward the bed and tossed my bag onto the mattress. It landed with a dull thud, its weight a reminder of the countless nights spent juggling two lives—one as a college student desperately holding onto his scholarship, the other as a bartender working until dawn just to survive.

This was my life.

Mornings spent in lecture halls, evenings drowning in textbooks, and nights behind the counter at a rundown bar, pouring drinks for people who had no idea what real struggle looked like. Then, the cycle would start again—no breaks, no rest, just an endless loop of survival.

I had no parents to fall back on. No siblings to call when things got too hard. No safety net. Just me, alone, scraping by in a world that didn’t give a damn whether I sank or swam.

Dragging my feet, I made my way to the tiny bathroom. The mirror above the sink greeted me with a reflection I barely recognized. Dark circles hung beneath my eyes like bruises, my skin pale from lack of rest. My jawline was sharp, my cheekbones prominent—features that might’ve made me look handsome if they weren’t weighed down by exhaustion.

I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my disheveled hair. I looked like someone who hadn’t slept in years—because, in a way, I hadn’t.

A low groan escaped my lips as I stripped off my clothes, letting them pool around my feet. The cool air brushed against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. Every muscle in my body ached, every bone protested against movement. My body was screaming for rest, but rest wasn’t a luxury I could afford.

I had morning lectures to attend. And if I wanted to keep my scholarship—the only thing keeping me in that university—I couldn’t afford to be late.

So, with heavy eyelids and a heart weighed down by fatigue, I turned on the faucet, letting the icy water shock me awake. Another day had begun, and whether I was ready or not, I had no choice but to face it.

I grabbed my toothbrush with sluggish fingers, squeezed a bit of toothpaste onto the bristles, and began scrubbing away the exhaustion clinging to me. The cool mint flavor burned against my tongue, a sharp contrast to the bitter taste of fatigue that never seemed to leave my mouth. My head throbbed slightly as I stared at my reflection, watching the way my tired eyes blinked back at me.

Once I was done, I turned on the shower, stepping under the cold stream that sent a jolt through my body. The water cascaded down my skin, washing away the remnants of another sleepless night. My muscles ached, protesting every movement, but I forced myself to stand there, letting the coldness wake me up.

After a few minutes, I stepped out, grabbing a towel and running it over my damp skin. I moved to my small wardrobe, throwing on a plain black t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. Simple, functional. I didn’t have the luxury of caring about fashion. Pulling on my worn-out sneakers, I ran a hand through my wet hair, pushing it back as I glanced at myself in the mirror one last time. The exhaustion in my features hadn’t disappeared, but at least I looked presentable.

I glanced at the wall clock and saw that the time was just 4:00am. My lectures were starting by 7:00am so I had like three hours to myself. Instead of sleeping, I decided to use the three hours to read.

Bringing out my books, I began studying. I didn't know how long I studied, but just as I grabbed my phone from the bedside table, it started ringing. The sharp vibration made me flinch slightly. I glanced at the screen—Stella.

I quickly swiped to answer. “Hey,” I muttered, rubbing my forehead.

“David, where the hell were you last night?” her voice rang through the speaker, loud and demanding. “I’ve been calling you, and you didn’t pick up! What the hell is wrong with you?”

I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. Not this again. “Stella, I was at the bar. You know, the job I have to keep so I don’t starve?”

She scoffed. “Oh, right. The job. The only thing you seem to care about these days.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you never have time for me, David!” she snapped. “You’re always working, always busy, always acting like I don’t exist! I swear, you don’t give me attention anymore. It’s like you’re just looking out for yourself!”

I sighed heavily. “That’s not fair. You know why I have to work—”

“Save it.” Her voice was cold now, final. “I’m done, David. This relationship? It’s not working. You clearly have other priorities, so I’ll make it easy for you. It’s over. Delete my number.”

The line went dead before I could say another word.

I stared at my phone, the screen still lit with the call log. Stella – Call Ended.

For a moment, I just stood there, gripping the device in my hand, waiting for the sting of her words to settle in. But instead of pain, all I felt was exhaustion—like an invisible weight pressing down on my chest.

I sighed, tossing the phone onto the bed. Of course, she broke up with me. It was only a matter of time.

This wasn’t the first time Stella had complained about my job, and it wouldn’t be the last. She wanted time, attention, dates, and affection—things I just couldn’t afford to give. Not when I was barely keeping my own life together.

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the frustration build up in my chest. What did she expect me to do? Quit my job? Drop out of college? I had no rich parents to fall back on. No safety net. I had to work—I had no choice.

Still, a part of me regretted how things ended. Stella had been with me for a while, through some of the hardest parts of my life. But lately, it felt like she didn’t understand me at all.

With another sigh, I grabbed my phone and shoved it into my pocket. No time to dwell on breakups. I had a lecture to get to. I checked the time and it was already seven o'clock.

I grabbed my bag off the bed and slung it over my shoulder before stepping out of my apartment. The morning air was crisp, the sun finally rising over the city, casting a dull glow on the worn-out streets.

Another day. Another cycle of exhaustion.

And now, I was going through it alone.

The streets were quiet as I stepped out of my apartment, the early morning air cool against my skin. My bag hung heavily from my shoulder, and my feet dragged slightly against the pavement as I began my usual walk to the university. I could’ve taken a bus, but that would’ve meant spending money I didn’t have. Walking was free, and free was all I could afford.

The city was slowly coming to life around me. Storefronts were opening, the smell of fresh bread and coffee wafting through the air as bakery workers set up their displays. Businessmen in tailored suits rushed past, clutching their briefcases and muttering into their phones. It was a world that moved fast, a world I was only trying to survive in.

After about thirty minutes of walking, I finally reached Westbridge University—the most prestigious and elite institution in the country. The towering iron gates stood wide open, welcoming students into a campus that might as well have belonged to royalty.

The university was massive, its buildings constructed from sleek marble and towering glass panels that gleamed under the morning sun. The architecture was nothing short of grand—high-arched windows, intricate stone carvings, and polished floors that reflected the light like a mirror. Lush green lawns stretched out between buildings, perfectly manicured and untouched, as if no one actually walked on them. A massive fountain stood in the center of the courtyard, water cascading from the mouth of a stone lion, a symbol of the school's prestige.

Everything about this place screamed wealth.

And I? I stuck out like a sore thumb.

Everywhere I looked, students were dressed in designer clothes—Gucci jackets, Prada bags, Rolex watches glinting on their wrists. The guys strolled around in tailored blazers and polished leather shoes, while the girls walked confidently in luxury heels and handbags that probably cost more than a year’s rent for my apartment.

Then there was me—in my faded black t-shirt, my worn-out jeans, and sneakers that had seen better days. I might as well have been a beggar who accidentally wandered into a palace.

As I made my way across the courtyard, the whispers started.

“Isn’t that the scholarship guy?”

“Oh my god, look at his shoes. They’re literally falling apart.”

“He’s so out of place here.”

“I don’t even know why the school lets people like that in.”

I kept my head down, ignoring them, focusing only on getting to my lecture hall. I was used to this. The stares, the whispers, the condescending looks—it was nothing new. Ever since I got accepted here on a full scholarship, I had been a walking target. To them, I was the poor kid who didn’t belong.

I passed by a group of students leaning against a sleek black BMW, their laughter cutting through the air. One of them, a tall guy in an expensive-looking coat, smirked as I walked past.

“Hey, Lancaster,” he called out mockingly. “How was the soup kitchen this morning?”

His friends snickered, but I didn’t stop walking. Didn’t even acknowledge him. Not worth it.

I finally reached the massive lecture hall and pushed open the heavy glass doors, stepping inside. The whispers faded behind me, but the weight of them still clung to me.

I took a deep breath.

Another day of feeling like an outsider.