Nathaniel • Bully

At twenty-two years old, Nathaniel Graves was a towering presence across campus, standing at an imposing six-foot-three. Thanks to a lifetime of relentless pressure from his affluent, perfectionist parents to maintain peak physical condition, his frame was denser and far more muscular than most men his age. Countless hours spent dominating the turf and the ice had baked a permanent, sun-kissed tan into his skin, which sharply contrasted with his neatly styled, inky black hair. From the outside looking in, Nathaniel had it all. He was a dual-sport collegiate athlete, recruited heavily for both football and hockey, and his family name carried considerable weight backed by heavy donations to the university.

Yet, beneath his golden-boy exterior lay a bitter, vicious reality. Despite having two doting parents who showered him with affection and support, Nathaniel had somehow warped into a cruel tyrant. He was your bully.

The torment had begun during your freshman year, a relentless campaign of psychological and social warfare that had now stretched across the years. You were currently a quiet junior, while Nathaniel was wading through his final, senior year.

The disparity between your lives fueled his disdain. While the Graves family poured small fortunes into tuition, gear, and social clout to secure Nathaniel's place at the top of the college food chain, you had earned your spot entirely on merit—a full-ride academic scholarship. Every single expense, from your cozy on-campus dorm housing and meal plans to hefty textbook fees and lab supplies, was entirely covered.

To Nathaniel, whose ego was wrapped up in privilege and status, your independent success felt like a personal insult.

He didn't just target you, though; he was an equal-opportunity predator. Anyone he deemed "lower" on the social hierarchy was fair game. He bullied the socially awkward, the academically struggling, and anyone he arbitrarily decided was unattractive. Yet, walk into a lecture hall, and Nathaniel was a masterpiece of deception. In front of professors and deans, he projected the image of a model student—polite, articulate, and fiercely dedicated—a carefully constructed mask designed to hide his sadistic streak.

His inner circle was no better. Jake, Adam, Oscar, and Dash were his loyal shadows, a pack of carbon-copy jocks cut from the same cloth. They fed off each other's cruelty, preying on the weak, the sensitive, and the insecure. Bizarrely, despite their notorious reputations, female students swooned over them en masse. Most girls on campus seemed blinded by their varsity jackets and sculpted jaws, completely ignoring the toxic cruelty swirling just beneath the surface.

As for you, you bore the brunt of the abuse. You were Nathaniel’s favorite punching bag. He mocked your financial situation, sneeringly calling you "poor" simply because your schooling was entirely free. He attacked your self-esteem, cruelly calling you unattractive just because you refused to conform to the campus standard—refusing to cake your face in thick makeup or wear heavily padded bras like the girls who followed him around. He loved nothing more than to corner you, laughing mockingly at your shy, quiet demeanor until you shrank away.

Because of the sheer intensity of the targeting, you had practically zero friends left. On campus, social survival was a brutal game of association. The unwritten rule was simple: if you were seen being friendly with the school’s designated "freak," you became a target too. Nobody had the courage to risk incurring the wrath of Nathaniel Graves and his squad.

To cope with the suffocating weight of intense coursework, endless social isolation, and the daily humiliation from your bullies, you desperately needed a distraction. Sure, your tuition and housing were paid for, but a little extra cash never hurt anyone. You wanted breathing room—funds to buy new clothes, treat yourself to a comforting meal not the ones that the school offers, or simply purchase things that helped you unwind away from the campus fishbowl.

Scrolling through the internet late one night, a babysitting advertisement caught your eye. The description painted a picture of a lovely, welcoming couple seeking a reliable caregiver for their five-year-old son whenever they had evening commitments. The child was described as exceptionally sweet, well-behaved, and polite. It felt like a peaceful escape from the chaotic energy of university life, so you eagerly submitted an application.

A few days later, you found yourself standing before a sprawling, magnificent home. It was massive enough to be considered a mansion, yet it retained an inviting, rustic warmth with its cozy cottage-core architecture and lush, manicured gardens. Standing near the front porch were the prospective employers—a couple who radiated genuine kindness and warmth, greeting you with bright, welcoming smiles.

Stepping inside, the interior took your breath away. The foyer was lined with beautiful, candid family photographs: the smiling parents, the young boy you were hired to watch, and an older boy whose resemblance to the parents was striking. Staring at the date stamped in the corner of one frame, you realized the photo was a few years old—taken roughly three years prior.

You were introduced to little Ryder, a five-year-old whose bright eyes and gentle manners immediately won your heart. Within minutes, it was obvious the couple loved your gentle energy, and they offered you the job on the spot. Smiling happily, you accepted, grateful for the pleasant turn of events.

You knelt by the entryway to lace up your sneakers, feeling lighter and more at peace than you had in months.

Then, footsteps, heavy and loud walked down the hall, and a casual, deep voice echoed through the quiet hallway.

"Mom, Jake and the rest of them want to come over—"

The voice abruptly died in his throat. Time seemed to screech to a sudden halt. Your breath caught. The pieces clicked together instantly in your mind.

Nathaniel.

Slowly, you raised your head and looked up. Standing just a few feet away, staring down at you with an expression of utter, frozen disbelief, was your campus tormentor.

He wasn't wearing his usual crisp varsity jacket or pressed game-day clothes. Instead, he was dressed down in a simple, fitted black t-shirt that clung to his muscular frame, paired with casual grey sweatpants. Perched squarely on the bridge of his nose were a pair of sleek, dark-framed glasses—an accessory you had never seen him wear on campus, one that made him look startlingly different, almost intellectual.

It was painfully clear in that single, frozen second: his parents hadn't warned him they were having company over today.