Chapter 4When Her Best Friend Chose Me

The day it happened, Hannah was locked in a four-hour departmental thesis defense. All phones were confiscated at the door, leaving her unreachable.

I was carrying a box of printmaking supplies from the storage depot back to the studio, taking the shortcut through the ground floor of the Old Arts Building.

As I passed the entrance to the decommissioned men's restroom, someone slammed into my blind spot.

My backpack was ripped from my shoulders. My phone was knocked cleanly from my grip.

I spun around. Bryce, Shane, Brett, and two other guys from the athletic rec club were blocking the hall.

Bryce tossed my phone lightly between his hands. "Adam. Let’s have a quick chat."

I lunged to break past them, but Shane grabbed the collar of my jacket from behind, hauling me violently backward through the rusted restroom door.

The fabric choked my throat, dark spots flashing before my eyes.

"Help!" I shouted.

The cry died against the peeling paint. The building had been abandoned for months, and on a weekday afternoon, the hallway was a dead zone.

They shoved me into the farthest stall.

My knees slammed hard against the porcelain rim of the toilet, sending a jolt of white-hot agony up my thighs. I collapsed onto the grimy tile.

The restroom door creaked open, and Oliver strolled inside.

He was wearing an immaculate cream-colored bomber jacket and pristine white sneakers, completely untouched by the damp, fungal stench of the room.

He looked down at me, feigning mild dismay. "Look at you. Why do you always look so unrefined?"

Bryce chuckled. "We haven't even started."

Brett dragged an industrial black contractor bag through the doorway.

The second the plastic opened, a suffocating, sour stench hit the air like a physical blow.

My stomach violently heaved.

It wasn't ordinary garbage. It was raw, wet cow manure—stolen, as I later learned, from the agricultural department’s composting tanks, loaded into janitorial buckets to bypass campus security.

"Are you out of your minds?" I scrambled backward, my back hitting the damp partition.

Oliver smiled, cold and detached. "You had plenty of spine on the stairs yesterday. Let’s see how much you have left."

The first wet, heavy clump struck my shoulder, spattering across my neck.

I cried out, thrashing to shield my face, but Bryce and Shane pinned my arms to the floor.

The second clump hit my hair.

The third soaked through the front of my shirt.

The foul, sulfurous stench clogged my throat, making me gag uncontrollably. My body shook with violent tremors, hot tears cutting lines through the filth on my cheeks.

Shane pulled out his phone, holding the camera inches from my face. "Don't cry now, little knockoff prince. Come on, look at the lens and say it: "I'm not good enough for Hannah."

I clamped my jaw shut, blood filling my mouth where my teeth cut into my inner lip.

Oliver walked up to the edge of the stall, looking down at me like an exterminator inspecting vermin.

"If Hannah wanted an understudy, she should have at least picked someone with class," he whispered. "Cheap clothes. Cheap background. Cheap soul."

He extended his right foot, tapping the immaculate white leather of his sneaker against my cheek.

"Lick it clean."

I stared up at him through the filth burning my eyes. "Go to hell."

His expression turned vicious. "Push him down."

Bryce grabbed a handful of my hair, forcing my forehead down toward the concrete. My skull hit the stall partition with a dull thud, my ears ringing violently. Heavy boots pressed down on my fingers; hands wrenched my shoulders back.

Oliver’s voice drifted down from above, smooth and lethal:

"Last chance, Adam. Get on your knees. Tell the camera you’re a cheap imitation, and tell her you’re leaving."

I bit down on my tongue until the metallic taste of blood drowned out the stench.

I wouldn't say it.

Even with my lungs burning, even with the room spinning into darkness, I wouldn't give him that line.

Just as my arms gave out under the weight of three grown men, the heavy exterior door of the restroom was kicked off its hinges with a thunderous crack.

The shockwave rattled the pipes in the walls.

"Oliver!"

Drew’s voice ripped through the air like a serrated blade.

"Get your fucking hands off him!"

He charged into the stall, and the moment his eyes landed on me, every ounce of his usual performative flippancy evaporated. His pupils were dilated, his face white with pure, unadulterated fury.

Without breaking stride, he snatched the industrial metal mop leaning against the wall, shoved the yarn head directly into the manure on the floor, and whipped it across Bryce’s face.

Bryce shrieked, stumbling backward into the sinks.

Drew reversed the swing with terrifying precision, driving the mop handle straight into Shane’s solar plexus, sending him crashing into the urinals.

"You like playing dirty?" Drew snarled, his voice trembling with venom. "Come on, assholes. Let’s see how tough you are!"