Part 3I Kept The Receipts This Time

When I reached the door of room 402, my footsteps came to a halt.

My suitcase lay open on the hallway linoleum. Textbooks, class notes, and toiletries were scattered across the floor, kicked and trampled. Inside, my mattress had been stripped, smeared with dirt and black boot prints.

Dustin was perched on the edge of his bed. When he caught me standing in the doorway, his gaze darted away in shame.

"What happened here?" I asked quietly, kneeling to gather my scattered notebooks.

"Earlier... Brett brought some guys from the rugby club up here," Dustin muttered, staring at the floorboards. "They called you a scammer. They said if Troy and I kept letting you live here, they'd jump us too."

He swallowed, his voice barely audible. "Evan... maybe you should just crash at a motel for a few days? Just until things blow over..."

I lifted my head and looked at him. "Until things blow over? Dustin, we’ve lived together for three years. Do you really believe I’m capable of this?"

In my past life, Dustin had been my closest friend on campus. I had saved seats for him in lecture halls, brought him takeout when he was sick, and tutored him through organic chemistry.

Yet he had been the very first person to post a public statement disavowing our friendship.

Dustin’s mouth twitched, but he couldn't bring himself to meet my eyes.

I didn't waste another breath. I packed my belongings into the suitcase, item by item, snapping the latch shut.

That night, Brett posted on his Instagram story.

It was a close-up of an IV drip stand in a sterile hospital room, capturing his pale, limp wrist in the foreground.

"I just hope kindness still means something in this world. Watch who you trust."

Within an hour, dozens of comments poured in, showering him with sympathy while cursing the "nameless broker" to hell.

I opened the campus Reddit board. The anonymous threads were dozens of pages deep.

Someone had compiled a meticulous "master timeline." They included a screenshot of my generic group chat message, followed by fabricated testimonials claiming I had previously trafficked male students into "high-paying escort gigs." Combined with Brett's hospital photo, the outrage was explosive.

My full name, student ID, major, photos, and even my parents’ small-town business addresses were doxxed and posted in public threads.

"Expel this piece of trash before he stains the whole university."

"Apples don't fall far from the tree. Look at his parents' shop—boycott them."

"@CampusAdmin do your damn job and give the victim justice!"

I quietly took screenshots of every single post, every username, and every timestamp. I zipped them into a folder and sent them directly to the legal counsel I had retained two days prior.

The cowards hiding behind anonymous handles were going to learn what consequences felt like.

The next morning, Mr. Briggs summoned me back to his office.

He slid a pre-printed document across the desk. It was a standard template for a formal confession and voluntary withdrawal.

"Evan, I spent all night advocating for you with the dean," Mr. Briggs said, rubbing his temples with an air of exhausted benevolence. "Sign this statement of regret, make a formal public apology to Brett, and submit your voluntary withdrawal."

He leaned forward. "If you withdraw voluntarily, we won't put disciplinary misconduct on your permanent transcript. It won't follow you into the workforce."

I looked down at the crisp white paper and let out a soft, humorless laugh.

"I did nothing wrong. Why would I sign a confession?"

Mr. Briggs’s face darkened instantly. "Don't be reckless, Evan! If the disciplinary board convenes, you will be formally expelled with a permanent record of moral turpitude. Your academic life will be over!"

"Then let the formal investigation proceed." I pushed the paper back across the mahogany desk. "If that’s all, Mr. Briggs, I have an appointment."

As I stepped into the carpeted corridor, I found Brett waiting at the far corner.

He was wearing an oversized, wrinkled gray sweater, his fringe hanging low over hollow, shadowed eyes. He looked like the picture of a broken victim.

In my past life, that exact performance had completely dismantled my defenses.

During our sophomore year, when his financial aid fell through, I spent two weeks running between administrative offices to secure him an emergency grant. When he was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis, I stayed by his bedside for three days straight, fetching water and keeping him company.

He used to call me his brother. And then he threw me off a cliff without blinking.

Seeing me approach, Brett gritted his teeth and lowered his voice to a desperate whisper. "Evan... just sign the paper and take the hit."

He reached out, his fingers clutching at my sleeve. "You’ve always had top grades. You have options. You can transfer, you can start over. But I have nothing... I need this fellowship, Evan. Can't you just help me one last time?"

I ripped my arm out of his grasp with enough force to make him stumble back.

"No."

I stared down at him, my voice devoid of warmth. "Brett, don't confuse my past decency for an obligation. I don't owe you a single thing."

I brushed past his shoulder without looking back.

Behind me, I could feel his gaze burning into my spine—raw, poisonous malice that wished I would simply cease to exist.