The clatter of plates and the low hum of conversation were sounds Alex Parker had grown used to. They were the soundtrack to his evenings, the background noise to his shattered dreams. He balanced three plates on his arm, the smell of steak and fries making his own stomach rumble. He hadn't eaten since yesterday's leftover instant noodles.
"Table seven," he muttered to himself, navigating the cramped floor of "The Gilded Spoon," a restaurant that was neither gilded nor served with spoons you'd want to write home about.
He placed the plates down with a practiced ease, offering a tired smile. "Enjoy your meal."
As he turned, the bell above the door chimed, announcing new customers. A gust of cold city air swept in, and with it, a group of four people. Alex's heart stopped.
Leading them was Victor Roland, his laugh too loud, his posture too perfect. He was the son of a famous director, a man who walked through the halls of Westfield University of the Arts like he owned them. And next to him, laughing at something he said, was Maya.
His Maya.
She was wearing a black dress he'd never seen before and carrying a small, elegant purse that probably cost more than his entire month's rent. Her hair was styled perfectly, not the messy bun she usually wore when they were studying together in his cramped apartment. She looked… expensive. She looked like she belonged with Victor.
A wave of nausea hit Alex. Just this morning, she had texted him: 'Hey, sorry, swamped with studying for midterms. Can't make it tonight. Raincheck? Xo.'
Alex's manager, a balding man with a permanent scowl, nudged him hard in the ribs. "Parker, don't just stand there gawking. Seat the customers."
Alex swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He grabbed four menus and walked towards them, keeping his eyes down. "Welcome to The Gilded Spoon. Table for four?"
"Yeah, a booth. And make it quick," Victor said, not even looking at him. His friends, a bored-looking couple, were already scanning the room with disdain.
Then Maya looked up. Her eyes met Alex's, and for a second, a flash of panic crossed her face. Her smile faltered. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a cool, blank expression. She looked right through him as if he were a complete stranger.
"Right this way," Alex said, his voice flat. He led them to a booth in the corner, the best one in the house, ironically. He laid the menus down on the table.
"Can I get you started with some drinks?" he asked, his gaze fixed on a point on the wall just over Victor's head.
"I'll have a bottle of your most expensive red wine," Victor announced, leaning back and draping his arm around Maya's shoulders. She stiffened for a moment before relaxing into his embrace.
"And for the lady?" Alex asked, his professionalism a thin shield against the pain.
Maya wouldn't look at him. She stared intently at the menu. "Just water. With lemon."
"Of course," Alex said. He turned and walked away, his back straight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He could feel their eyes on him, or rather, he could feel Maya pointedly not looking at him. He felt like a ghost at his own funeral. He got the water and the wine, served them with robotic precision, and took their food orders. Each interaction was a fresh stab of betrayal. He heard snippets of their conversation as he passed by.
"So, Victor, your father is really letting you direct a short film?" one of the friends asked.
"Of course," Victor bragged. "He said if I can prove myself, he'll get me a meeting with the producers at Starfire Studios."
"Oh, Victor, that's amazing!" Maya's voice, full of admiration. A tone she hadn't used with Alex in a long, long time.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to march over there and ask her why. He wanted to look Victor in his perfect face and punch him. But he did nothing. He just kept refilling their water glasses and clearing their plates, a polite, invisible servant. Because he was poor, and they were rich. He was a nobody, and they were somebodies. That's just how the world worked.
The next day felt like a continuation of the same nightmare. Alex sat in the stark, white acting studio of Westfield. Professor Albright, a man who believed his own critiques were works of art, paced before the small group of students.
"Art is not about mimicry! It is about truth! Raw, unfiltered, agonizing truth!" he declared, his voice echoing in the silent room. "Mr. Parker. Front and center."
Alex's stomach twisted. He was still reeling from last night. He hadn't slept, and the lines from the play he was supposed to have memorized felt like a foreign language in his head. He walked to the center of the room, feeling dozens of eyes on him. He could see Maya sitting in the second row, pointedly whispering something to the girl next to her.
"The monologue from 'Shattered Glass'," Albright commanded. "Begin."
Alex took a breath and started. "When you left... you took the sun with you. All that's left is... is this cold..."
"Stop!" Albright yelled, making Alex jump. "Just stop. What was that? Are you asking me a question? 'You took the sun with you?' It sounds like you're ordering a coffee. There is no pain, no heart! You are a hollow shell, Mr. Parker. Do you even want to be here?"
"Yes, Professor. I do," Alex said, his voice barely a whisper.
"Then act like it! Show me the agony of a man who has lost everything! From the top!"
Alex tried again, forcing more emotion into his voice, but it felt fake. It felt like he was playing a caricature of sadness, even though the real thing was eating him alive inside.
"Pathetic," Albright sighed, waving a dismissive hand. "You have no connection to the material. You have no soul. Sit down."
The words hit him harder than a physical blow. He walked back to his seat, his face burning with shame. He chanced a look at Maya. She met his gaze for a split second, her expression a mixture of embarrassment and pity, before quickly looking away. It was clear she agreed with the professor.
Just then, the door to the studio burst open. A girl named Clara, known for her dramatic flair both on and off stage, stormed in, her face pale.
"My locket!" she cried out, her voice trembling. "My grandmother's gold locket! It's gone!"
The class erupted in murmurs.
"I left my bag right here by the door when I went to the restroom," Clara said, pointing a shaking finger. "It was a gift from my grandmother before she passed away!"
Professor Albright stepped forward. "Calm yourself, Miss Vance. Are you certain you didn't misplace it?"
"No! It was in the side pocket. And..." She scanned the room, her eyes landing directly on Alex. "I saw him. I saw him lingering by the bags when I came back in."
Alex's blood ran cold. "What? No, I didn't."
One of Victor's friends, Chad, who was in the class, spoke up from his seat. "Actually, Professor, I saw him over there too. Looked a bit shifty."
"I was just getting some water from the fountain down the hall," Alex protested, his voice rising in panic. "I didn't go near anyone's bag."
"He's lying!" Clara sobbed. "My grandmother's locket..."
"This is a serious accusation," Professor Albright said, his eyes narrowed at Alex. The professor had never liked him, always seeing him as a charity case who had somehow slipped through the university's pristine gates.
The matter was escalated to the Dean's office within the hour. Alex stood before Dean Hemlock, a stern woman with a reputation for zero tolerance. Clara was there with her father, a wealthy lawyer and a prominent donor to the university. Professor Albright was there. And to his horror, so was Maya, who had apparently been called as a 'character witness.'
"Mr. Parker," Dean Hemlock began, her voice cold and detached. "We have a very serious allegation of theft. Clara is understandably distraught, and Chad has corroborated her story that you were seen near her belongings."
"I didn't do it," Alex said, his voice shaking. "They can check my pockets, search my apartment. I don't have it. There's no proof."
Mr. Vance scoffed. "The proof is that my daughter's priceless heirloom is missing, and your student was seen loitering near it."
"Dean Hemlock," Alex pleaded, "I've been here for three years. I've never caused any trouble." He looked at Maya, begging her with his eyes. "Maya, tell them. You know me."
Maya shifted uncomfortably in her chair, refusing to meet his gaze. She looked at the Dean. "Alex has been under a lot of... stress lately. He's been having financial problems."
It wasn't a defense. It was a motive. Betrayal, sharp and absolute, pierced through Alex's panic. She had just handed them the final nail for his coffin.
Dean Hemlock sighed, tapping a pen on her desk. "Westfield's reputation is paramount. We cannot have students feeling unsafe. Given the testimony and the circumstances, I have no choice. Alex Parker, you are hereby expelled from this university, effective immediately."
"Expelled?" Alex choked out the word. "But there's no evidence!"
"My decision is final," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Security will escort you to your dormitory to collect your things. You have one hour to vacate the premises."
It was over. Just like that. His three years of hard work, of skipping meals to pay tuition, of dreaming of a future, all erased by a lie. As security guards flanked him, he saw Maya walk out of the office with Clara and her father. She didn't look back once.
The world was a gray, blurry mess. Alex walked down the street, a single cardboard box in his arms containing the few pathetic belongings from his dorm room. Expelled. Homeless. Heartbroken. It was a trifecta of misery.
He didn't know where he was going. He just walked, the city's noise a dull roar in his ears. Rain began to fall, cold and miserable, soaking through his thin jacket. It was all so... pointless. He had worked so hard, been so kind, and for what? To be chewed up and spit out by a world that only cared about money and connections.
He stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, his mind a million miles away. He didn't notice the little girl, no older than five, who toddled off the curb, chasing a bright red ball that had bounced into the middle of the street.
He did, however, hear the screech of tires.
His head snapped up. A black sedan was speeding towards the girl, the driver's horrified face visible through the windshield. There was no time. Alex didn't think. He dropped his box, its contents scattering across the wet pavement.
He lunged.
Three long strides were all it took. He shoved the little girl hard, sending her stumbling back onto the safety of the sidewalk just as the car reached them. He tried to pull back, but it was too late.
There was a deafening crunch of metal and bone.
A blinding pain exploded in his side, and the world flipped upside down. He landed on the asphalt with a sickening thud. The gray sky spun above him. He could hear screaming, the little girl crying, the panicked voice of the driver.
His vision started to tunnel, the edges turning dark. He felt a strange coldness spreading through him. So this is it, he thought, a strange sense of calm washing over him. Maybe it's for the best.
His eyelids felt heavy, so incredibly heavy. He was about to let them close for the final time when a flash of brilliant blue light appeared in his field of vision. It wasn't the light of an ambulance or a streetlamp. It was a clean, digital blue, forming a rectangular screen right in front of his eyes, visible only to him.
Words, crisp and white, materialized on the screen.
[Critical Condition Detected]
[Host Meets System Activation Requirements]
[Initiating Superstar System]
A new line of text blinked at the bottom, a silent invitation.
[Accept / Decline]
Alex stared at the impossible sight, the pain in his body momentarily forgotten. Was he hallucinating? Dreaming? As the darkness closed in, squeezing the last bit of consciousness from him, he focused all his remaining will. He didn't know what it was, but it was better than the nothingness that awaited him. He had to accept.
His body was broken, but his spirit, for the first time in a long time, flickered with a tiny, desperate spark.