THE BROKEN DREAMS

Royal Crest High buzzed like a beehive about to explode.

Sabrina's yacht party had poisoned the halls.

Friendships cracked.

Alliances formed and collapsed.

Fred drifted through it all like a ghost.

Silent.

Invisible.

No invitation.

No attention.

Nothing new.

Except today was different.

Today was The Grand Royal Crest Talent Show — an annual event where students fought like gladiators for fame and a chance to "be noticed" by scouts from top art and sports universities.

And for students like Fred?

It was just another knife to the ribs.

---

Few knew that Fred could sing.

Really sing.

A voice that sounded like sorrow and hope wove into one.

Only his cracked bathroom mirror and his pillow had heard it.

But this year, pushed by his Literature teacher Mr. Raymond — a kind but broke man who saw a spark in Fred — he had secretly signed up.

It was Fred's one desperate gamble:

Sing. Win. Maybe earn a scholarship. Save his family.

Simple.

Deadly.

---

The Royal Crest auditorium gleamed like a jewel under the blinding stage lights.

Red velvet curtains.

Rows upon rows of expensive seats.

VIP judges seated in front — heads of music companies, sports recruiters, talent agents.

Sabrina sat lazily among the front row students, wearing a sleek silver dress, legs crossed, a diamond hairclip glinting under the lights.

Tiffany Lane — the self-declared Queen Bee — adjusted her gold mini dress beside her, whispering and giggling.

Fred stood backstage, heart pounding so hard it shook his ribs.

His clothes were simple:

White shirt.

Black pants.

Shoes two sizes too big, polished till they almost shined.

Compared to others dripping in designer brands, he looked like a janitor who had wandered onto the wrong stage.

But he clenched the microphone like a lifeline.

> "Just sing," he whispered to himself. "Forget them. Just sing."

---

The host — Victor Simmons, son of a millionaire hotel tycoon, dressed in a custom navy suit — called Fred's name with a mocking smile.

> "Next up... someone who might need no introduction... or maybe really needs one... Give it up for Freddy..."

Laughter rippled across the crowd.

Fred walked onto the stage, feet numb, mouth dry.

The spotlight hit him.

It felt like a gunshot.

He could see their faces:

Smirking.

Whispers.

Phone cameras raised, ready to catch him fall.

The piano intro started.

Fred opened his mouth.

And sang.

---

It was raw.

It was broken.

It was beautiful.

Fred's voice cut through the laughter like a blade.

Even some who hated him fell silent.

For the first verse, he owned the stage.

Sabrina leaned forward slightly, eyebrow raised.

Victor stopped smirking.

Even Tiffany's giggling halted.

The judges scribbled notes furiously.

Fred closed his eyes, pouring every ounce of hunger, pain, and dreams into the melody.

For a moment, it felt like the world could be kind.

For a moment, Fred flew.

---

Then it happened.

Midway through the second chorus, the microphone cut off.

Dead silence.

Fred blinked, confused.

The piano faltered.

The crowd shifted, whispers growing like snakes.

Fred tapped the microphone.

Nothing.

Victor's laughter burst across the auditorium.

> "Maybe the mic's allergic to... mediocrity?"

Another student, Leon, fake-tripped over the sound cable backstage, yanking it loose — on purpose.

Fred stood frozen.

Embarrassed.

Helpless.

Choked.

The audience roared with laughter.

Phone flashes exploded.

Someone screamed:

> "Get off the stage, poor boy!"

Another:

> "Go sing in the subway where you belong!"

The judges shook their heads, disappointed.

No second chances.

Fred swallowed hard, humiliated.

He bowed — stiffly — and walked off stage as fast as his legs could carry him.

The applause that followed wasn't for him.

It was the sound of hundreds of teenagers clapping because a nobody was crushed.

---

As Fred fled, he caught Sabrina watching him — not laughing, not mocking.

Just... watching.

Storm-grey eyes unreadable.

For a heartbeat, Fred thought he saw something.

Pity?

Respect?

But it disappeared before he could be sure.

---

Backstage, Fred ripped off his broken microphone headset and slammed it onto the ground.

Tears threatened, but he crushed them down.

He would not give them the satisfaction.

Mr. Raymond found him later, handing him a crumpled bottle of water.

> "I'm sorry, kid," Mr. Raymond said, voice thick.

"Some stages are rigged before you even step on them."

Fred didn't answer.

He just stared at the cracked mirror nearby — his own reflection blurry and broken.

Another dream dead.

Another reminder:

In Royal Crest, talent didn't matter.

Money did.

---

That night, Fred sat on the broken steps of their building, watching the city skyline glitter in the distance — a million lights mocking his darkness.

He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms.

And he whispered under his breath:

> "I'll build an empire so big... they'll have to choke on it."

The stars flickered, indifferent.

The war had begun.

And Fred — broken, humiliated, forgotten Fred — had just declared it.

They just didn't know yet.

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