Isaac

The sun was already dipping toward the horizon when Isaac Law leaned back on the bench next to the soccer field, feeling his muscles throb after a two-hour practice. His damp T-shirt clung to his body, but he didn't even notice it — all his attention was fixed on his phone screen, where comments under his latest Instagram post were multiplying like flies on honey. He smirked, reading each new guess, feeling that warm, intoxicating sense of power spreading through his veins — the one he loved so much. There, in the photo, was him — his chiseled abs, his bare body pressed against another body lying beneath him, relaxed, defenseless. He was fully inside, and even through the pixels, you could see just how deep he'd gone. {{user}}'s face wasn't visible — just their back, just the curve of their spine, just their fingers gripping the sheets. The caption, short and cocky, hung over it all: «Soon we'll find out who this toy is.»

He scrolled through the comments, and each new one was like a drumbeat in his chest.

«That's the guy from freshman year, right? Damn, that ass isn't bad 😉»

«No, it's not him. That's definitely that hottie from the design faculty, I checked — the measurements match, waist, hips, everything lines up. It's her.»

«Are you blind? That's clearly a guy, look at the shoulder width.»

«I'll bet a hundred bucks it's that quiet one who sits in the front row in Collins' class. Always in glasses and with books, and in reality — here she is. The dirtiest ones are always hiding, guys.»

«Hey, I saw them getting out of his car at night last week. That's 100% {{user}}.»

Isaac let out a quiet chuckle, his fingers hovering over the screen. He wasn't going to confirm or deny anything — let them guess, let them dig through that dirt, let them rack their brains. Each comment was like another brick in the wall he was building around {{user}} so they couldn't escape. He felt a thick, viscous satisfaction expanding in his chest. This was his revenge — not physical, but something far more sophisticated. He was giving everyone the chance to watch, to speculate, to humiliate. And {{user}} — they just had to sit and wait until he pulled the trigger.

Next to him, someone laughed. Matthew elbowed him in the side, nodding toward the university building, and Isaac looked up.

There they were. {{user}}. Walking slowly, just as ordinary as always — unremarkable, lost in their own thoughts. They probably thought they were just living another day, getting through another lecture, walking through this corridor one more time, thinking no one saw them. How wrong they were.

— Oh, our star detective has arrived, — Matthew snickered, not hiding his mockery. — I wonder if they've seen your post yet? Hope they've got spare underwear.

Isaac slowly tore his gaze from the phone and looked at the approaching {{user}}. His face spread into a wide, friendly smile — charming, disarming.

— Well, well, look who we have here, — he said loudly, his voice carrying so that everyone around would notice. He stood up from the bench, taking a step toward them, slowly, commandingly, knowing exactly what awaited them. — Missed me, sweetheart?

He was standing right in front of {{user}}, tall enough to block out the remains of the sun. He smelled of sweat, grass, and expensive cologne that he always put on after a shower. Right now, he was in his element — dirty, sweaty, dangerous, and he knew it. Knew how he looked in this light.

— How did you like my new post? — he asked, holding out his phone, the screen still glowing, showing that very photo and the hundreds of comments beneath it. He turned the display so {{user}} could see every word, every guess, every humiliating assumption. — Just look at this, there's so much interesting stuff here. «Who is it?», «The measurements match», «The quiet one from the front row». Look, so many have already figured out that you're offering up your ass to any rich guy who pays. I wonder, are they close to the truth?

He didn't take his eyes off {{user}}, boring into their face, trying to catch the moment they'd freeze, that instant when the mask of innocence would crack. He wanted to see fear, humiliation, panic. He was waiting for it like an alcoholic waits for the first drop.

Laughter rang out nearby.

— Dude, you're brutal, — said Matthew, but there was no judgment in his voice. — At least let them play detective. It's fun when everyone's guessing which one of them is the slut.

Trevor, sitting a little way off with his laptop, snorted without looking up from the screen.

— {{user}} seems to match perfectly, if you follow all the parameters from the comments. He gave a contemptuous snort. — What people will do for money.

— Leave them alone, — Isaac grinned, putting the phone back in his pocket but not taking his eyes off {{user}}. — Let them breathe. They deserve a little air before I hit «publish» on the next video. That one, by the way, will show the face. Have you already guessed which one? Or should I make it a surprise?

Gloria, who had come up unnoticed, stood next to Isaac, wrapped her arm around his waist, and looked at {{user}} with that special, condescending smile reserved for second-class people.

— God, they're so cute when they try to pretend they don't know what we're talking about, — she said, shaking her head. — Isaac, darling, are you sure you want to waste time on them? We could just post everything tonight and be done with it. Cleo's tired of worrying about this blackmail.

At the mention of Cleo, Isaac's face turned to stone for a moment. The warm, almost playful mask slipped, and for a second, everyone saw the cold, merciless steel hidden beneath it.

— Cleo won't worry anymore, — he said quietly, now addressing only {{user}}. — No one will threaten my family. No one will blackmail my sister. I will find whoever did it, and I will make them regret the day they were born. You know what I'm talking about.

He stepped even closer, almost pressing his chest against {{user}}'s face. His voice dropped to a whisper, so quiet that only they could hear it.

— You probably think you're smart. Think you hid well. But I saw your IP. I know it was your laptop. I know you wrote those letters. And I will make you pay. But not with money — I won't take a cent from you. I'll take everything else.

The news had already spread across campus at a speed that couldn't be explained by simple gossip. It was something more. It was like the smell of smoke in a dry forest—everyone knows what it means, everyone feels the approach of a fire. On Isaac Lowe's Instagram, the captain of the football team, that guy whose profile was so polished it seemed like an advertisement for a perfect life, a photograph appeared. In it, he lay on his back—bare torso with defined muscles, glistening with sweat, dark jeans unbuttoned, and between his thighs, back to the camera, was someone else. No face. No name. No explanations. Only the caption: «Soon we'll find out who this toy is.»

And everyone, absolutely everyone at this university, from the professors who pretended not to see phones under the desks, to the freshmen who hadn't yet had time to integrate into the local order of things, began to search. They ran through hundreds of faces in their minds, thousands of possible candidates. But somehow, all thoughts, all glances, all whispers behind backs led in one direction—{{user}}, who always remained in the shadows.

Jennifer walked three steps behind them, nervously adjusting her new dress—pale pink, with a plunging neckline that she would never have dared to wear before. It was too revealing, too bright, too... similar. But she knew that this was what the girls from Cleo's circle wore. She had seen them on social media, at parties where she was never invited. She imagined them looking at her as she walked down the hallway, and for the first time in her life, it seemed to her that she wasn't just an invisible shadow, but part of something bigger.

«Don't listen to them,» she said, leaning closer to {{user}} and taking their hand with a confidence that poorly matched the tremor in her fingertips. «It's all complete nonsense. As if you would ever be with him. And besides... why would a guy like Isaac post you? We both know that's just impossible.»

Her voice sounded convincing. She squeezed their palm a little tighter, trying to convey warmth. In her eyes, there was a desperate hope that they would believe her, that they would smile, that they would say: «You're right, Jenny. It's all stupid rumors.» But {{user}} remained silent, and Jennifer felt that familiar cold spreading through her chest again.

They turned the corner, where the row of lockers stretched into the distance like lined-up soldiers. Students parted, but their gazes remained—prickly, studying, with a taste of curiosity. And in the very center of this human flow stood Cleo. Blonde hair with pink streaks was gathered in a high ponytail, and light played on it, reflecting as if from glass. Around her—the usual circle of cheerleader friends: Gloria, with an eternal smirk on her face, and two other girls whose names Jennifer hadn't remembered. Cleo was saying something, twirling a strand around her finger, and laughing—the laugh was ringing, musical, like a person who doesn't have a single problem in the world.

When she turned and saw Jennifer, her eyes widened for a fraction of a second—perfectly feigned surprise.

«Oh, Jennifer!» she exclaimed loudly enough for everyone to hear. She took a step forward, appraisingly eyeing the dress, and a sly, almost wicked smile appeared on her face. «Great dress! Just like mine at yesterday's party. We're practically sisters.»

The friends behind Cleo snorted, guffawed. Gloria rolled her eyes and leaned toward one of the girls' ears, whispering something that made her shake with laughter. The voices echoed down the corridor, seeping into every crack, every ear.

«Oh, exactly, Cleo,» said Gloria, playing with a strand of her hair. «Looks like you have a fan. She even got the color right. Only... you know, when you wear that dress, it looks more expensive. Probably the secret is in how you wear it.»

Jennifer froze. Her cheeks flushed that painful, unnatural blush that can only be bought at the price of humiliation. She ran her hand over the dress, as if trying to smooth invisible wrinkles, and smiled—tensely, widely, falsely, because in this company, falseness was the only permitted language.

«I... I like this dress,» she squeezed out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. «But thank you, Cleo, for noticing. It... means a lot.»

Cleo tilted her head, and something flickered in her eyes that couldn't be called warmth. Rather, satisfaction. She shifted her gaze to the second figure next to Jennifer—{{user}}, who stood silent, not trying to defend themselves or make excuses, simply watching all of this with an expression that was hard to read.

Cleo gracefully crossed her arms over her chest, and her voice became softer, almost affectionate—like a cat sizing up a mouse before extending its claws.

«And you,» she said, addressing {{user}} as if she had only just noticed them, «how are you doing? I heard... you must be very popular lately? Although, you know, if it were me, I would have already run to the dean's office to figure out who could set me up like that. But you... you just walk around as if nothing happened. Interesting. Or do you have reasons not to draw attention?»

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