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 holdin

Professor Jenny and I made our way back to the lecture hall, and I could feel every single pair of eyes on us. The whispers started immediately—hushed murmurs, stolen glances, judgmental smirks. Some students nudged each other, others discreetly pulled out their phones, probably to record whatever was happening. I didn’t care. I kept my head straight, matching Ms. Jenny’s pace as she walked beside me, completely unfazed by the attention. If anything, she exuded an air of quiet authority, her presence commanding the room before she even said a word. We entered the lecture hall, and the moment we did, the whispers intensified. I ignored them. My focus shifted to my book, still lying on the floor where Dylan had crushed it. I walked over and bent down, picking it up. The cover was bent, the pages slightly torn, but I didn’t care. I ran a hand over the creases before tucking it under my arm and making my way to my seat at the far end of the hall. Ms. Jenny, on the other hand, st

I pushed open the bar’s creaky door and stepped inside, immediately hit by the familiar scent of alcohol, sweat, and stale smoke. The place was already busy, dimly lit with the usual crowd of regulars hunched over their drinks. Back to reality. I sighed, rolling my shoulders before making my way behind the counter. “Look who finally decided to show up,” a gruff voice called. I turned to see Mark, my manager, wiping down a glass with his ever-present scowl. He was a burly guy in his late forties with a permanent five o’clock shadow and a personality that swung between grumpy and mildly tolerable. “You’re two minutes late,” he added. I sighed. “Traffic.” Mark grunted but didn’t push it further. He didn’t actually care as long as I did my job. I grabbed an apron and tied it around my waist, my mind still replaying everything that had happened today. Jenny, her car, her laughter, the way she looked at me… I shook my head. I needed to focus. The night dragged on like it

The grin didn’t fade as I turned away from the mirror, my mind racing. Fun. That was one way to put it. Insane was another. I ran my fingers over the expensive watch, the weight of it foreign against my skin. The bruises on my knuckles, the ache in my ribs, the ghost of Dylan’s boot against my side—those felt real. But this? The palatial estate, the staff treating me like royalty, the ten million dollars sitting in my account? It was like stepping into someone else’s life. And maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. I took a deep breath, inhaling the subtle scent of cedar and wealth, then crossed the room to the massive walk-in closet. Rows of suits in deep charcoals and midnight blues hung perfectly pressed, their designer labels whispering a price tag I didn’t even want to guess at. The shelves held rows of polished Italian leather shoes, and the glass display cases glinted with cufflinks, tie bars, and watches worth more than my old bartender’s salary in a year. I ran my fingers