He posted it with a grin that didn't reach his eyes:
*I don't care about Corey. I don't care about Kayla. I never run out of leaks. I'm not a one-time wonder. I've got something on someone big.*
The words looked harmless at first, black text on a white background. But to Jaxon, they pulsed, daring the world to bite back. He hit "Post," the cursor blinking like a countdown timer, and for a few seconds, nothing happened. Then—an explosion.
Notifications. Retweets. Shares. Reposts with fire emojis. The comment section swelled into chaos.
*He's back!*
*Troll Lord never misses!*
*Kayla and Corey are finished. This guy's a god.*
His heart raced, and his mouth curled into a nervous half-smile. He could feel it—the rush, the heat of relevance. Then, like a man stepping off a ledge, he uploaded the video.
The clip loaded, pixel by pixel—the prince of Cresthaven, a future mayoral candidate by rumor, tangled in scandal: two palace maids, a velvet bed, the careless moans of indulgence. The video was pure porn, five minutes of hard sex.
The sound hit like an echo through marble halls, and Jaxon knew he'd just cracked open something bigger than petty heartbreak.
The responses came like floodwater.
*No way this is real. The prince is married isn't he? Fucking maids?"
*That's the prince of Cresthaven—holy hell!*
*Where did Troll Lord get this?*
*This man's either fearless or suicidal.*
He scrolled faster, eyes wide, hands sweating against the screen. The comment count climbed past thirty thousand. His followers jumped from six hundred thousand to eight hundred in minutes. But then, the tone changed. The crowd's hysteria twisted into something darker, colder.
A new comment appeared, from an account with a golden crest profile picture—@CresthavenHouseOfficial.
*This footage is fabricated. The individual responsible for spreading such false material will face legal and criminal action. This is treason under Section 9.*
The words treason and criminal action hit him in the stomach. His breath faltered. Then another comment, this time from a verified account with a single name: @RylanCresthaven.
*You've made a mistake, Jaxon. Delete it now.*
His blood froze. Oh my God.
He hadn't known the man's name before—hadn't cared who the prince was. But now he knew, because the replies said it all.
*Prince Rylan himself commented?!*
*Wait—Rylan's running for Mayor of New Avalon!*
*Oh my god. Troll Lord just ended the prince's campaign.*
Jaxon blinked at the screen, the words blurring, the room spinning faintly around him. Running for mayor? He whispered it out loud, the syllables catching in his throat.
"Oh my God," he breathed. "What have I done?"
Then came the next wave—comments that weren't fan noise, weren't jokes.
*You're not going to make it to morning.*
*You think they won't find you?*
*The Royal Guard doesn't forgive humiliation.*
*Enjoy your last pizza, Troll Lord.*
Each one landed heavier than the last. He could feel the sweat breaking across his back despite the cold air blasting from the vents. He looked at the AC panel—set to nineteen degrees—but his palms were wet, his shirt clinging to his skin. His chest rose and fell too fast, shallow breaths that scraped.
He refreshed again—he shouldn't have, but he did. A new mention. @CoreyRealOfficial.
*Enjoy the views, Jax. You're next.*
The words were like a fist through his ribs.
Corey knew. Corey was watching. Corey was alive and furious. Corey posted his face for the public.
His followers exploded again, screenshotting Corey's comment, posting reaction GIFs, making memes. But buried between the noise, new usernames began to appear—ones that didn't look like fans.
@RoyalSecurityUnit
@CresthavenWatch
@StateJusticeDivision
Each posted identical warnings: "Content violation. Remove within the hour."
Then the official Cresthaven Palace Press account joined:
*Ongoing investigation into digital intrusion and defamation. The individual responsible will be located and detained.*
The word detained repeated in his mind, echoing like an empty hallway.
His phone buzzed again—direct messages pouring in, anonymous accounts sending screenshots, threads, even memes predicting his "death countdown."
His fingers shook as he typed a reply he didn't send: *You can't kill what's viral.*
He deleted it before posting.
The glow from his laptop made the room ghostly, the city lights flickering through the glass like restless eyes. Every reflection in the window seemed to move—every shadow looked like someone watching. His heart thumped so hard he thought he'd hear it through the floor. Sweat slid down his temple. The hum of the AC sounded like a warning.
Then, three knocks.
Soft. Deliberate.
He froze.
His hand moved to the door, slow as a confession. He leaned toward the keyhole, one eye pressed against the metal. A woman. Early twenties, maybe. Polished. Her hair coiled in a sleek knot, a black suit hugging her frame, heels glinting under the corridor light. Behind her, two suited men stood still—no expression, no motion, like statues built from muscle.
Jaxon's breath hitched. He didn't know her, but he knew what she represented.
He stepped back from the door, pressing his palms into his thighs, trying to stop the trembling. "Not like this," he whispered. "Not today."
He sighed, his chest tight, his heartbeat wild. This is death, he thought. This is how it comes.
Less than a day ago, he'd been a nobody. Then, he'd seen the spotlight, fame, money, power—and now, death waiting politely at his door.
The second knock was harder. A command.
He glanced toward his laptop—PayPal blinking with new transactions, his crypto wallet showing seven figures. He wasn't dead yet. He could run. He could disappear with the money. Go to Africa or Asia. Delete everything. Change names. He turned toward the briefcase, snatched it, and took one step toward the back door—
The front door shattered.
It wasn't just broken—it exploded. Splinters rained onto the marble as the hinges ripped free. He lowered his head and covered his head with his hands.
When he looked up, it was too late. The suited men stepped through first, their movements precise, rehearsed. Then the woman followed, calm amid the chaos. Her perfume hit first—something sharp, clean, commanding.
"Jaxon," she said, her tone polite but cold. "You really don't make this hard to find."
He froze. His mouth opened, but no sound came. "Death is here," he muttered.
She smiled faintly. "You're lucky, you know. If I weren't the one standing here, you'd already be in a van. Or worse."
"Who—who are you?" he managed.
She stepped forward, her heels whispering across the floor. "I am Seraphina Kane, daughter to the General, General Aldrich Kane" she said simply. "And, apparently, the only person in this city who thinks you're worth more alive than dead."
Jaxon blinked, disoriented. "Alive?"
"Barely," she teased. "You're stupid, Jaxon. Really stupid. You leak royal filth, you stay in the same apartment, your IP's open, your walls are unencrypted—you're practically begging to be killed." She gestured toward his laptop, its open tabs glowing. "Even your camera's on. Amateur hour."
He swallowed hard, the words tangling in his throat. "You— you're not here to—"
"Kill you? No," she said, cutting him off, her tone shifting. "You've done us a favor. You helped clear our opponent. My brother's opponent." Her smile widened. "Now Rylan's finished, and our side wins the mayor's seat. You, dear Nasy Troll Lord, just became useful."
He blinked. "Useful?"
"You're signing a deal," she said, circling him. "You're one of us now. A centurion. You'll have a hundred ops on you—real people, real protection." She began to list them off, each title landing like a stamp of ownership. "Cyber analysts to guard your feeds. Surveillance teams to keep eyes on your perimeter. Drivers, handlers, shadow writers, fixers. You'll have medics, body doubles, decoys. And a kill-switch, should you ever get too loud."
He stared, disbelief cracking his voice. "What—what is this?"
She stopped walking and faced him, inches away. Her perfume filled his lungs. "This," she said softly, "is survival."
She leaned closer, whispering: "You're one of our own now. You belong to us. And we'll keep you—safe, invisible, and armed—against Rylan and his household."
Her words slithered through the air, honeyed and hard. Behind her, one of the suited men set a sleek tablet on the counter. A contract glowed on-screen.
Jaxon looked at his phone—still buzzing with comments, still burning with death threats and praise—and then at the door, cracked and broken, a reminder of what waited outside.
He'd traded heartbreak for fame. Now fame had traded him for war.
The woman extended a pen. "Welcome to the underworld, Troll Lord," she said. "Let's make you untouchable. Deal or death?"
And Jaxon, trembling, realized that death had not come for him—it had come to recruit him.