They used to call him many things in the tabloids—the Harrington Heir, the Billionaire Brat, America's Golden Disaster, Harvard's Most Expensive Mistake—but among his closest circle, among the boys who followed him into every neon-dripping bar and every chandelier-lit rooftop party, there was one nickname whispered with affectionate mockery, a name he half-hated and half-wore like a crown.
Piggy.
It wasn't meant to insult him—not really. It came from that ridiculous moment during his sophomore year, when he had once dramatically fallen asleep drunk on the velvet sofa of a penthouse club with a half-finished bacon-cheeseburger resting on his chest like a badge of honor. The tabloids got a photo. The world laughed. Adrian Vale Harrington, the heir worth more than most nations, blissfully sleeping with grease on his chin.
His friends called him Piggy after that. And he'd laugh, toss a glass, pull someone close, demand another drink, another song, another hour of revelry to drown the fact that a part of him didn't know who he would be if he ever stopped laughing.
Tonight—this strange, heavy evening at the very beginning of the story—he wore the name as he always had: with theatrical pride and a reckless grin.
The city buckled beneath him, glittered for him, worshiped him. The top floor of the Elysian Club was his chosen kingdom, and the kingdom knew its king. He sat on a white leather lounge shaped like some futuristic crescent moon, surrounded by friends, influencers, the sons and daughters of CEOs and senators, all basking in the soft blue light of impossible luxury.
He was twenty-two, obese, loud, shining with sweat from dancing, smelling faintly of whiskey and cologne that cost more than the average student's tuition. His cheeks were flushed, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his breath warm with laughter and flirtation. Every time his phone chimed—every time he imagined it might be her—he took a quick glance, only to find it wasn't.
Seraphina Moretti. The only girl who ever made him feel small.
She'd left a month ago, frustrated at his suffocating affection, annoyed by his childish possessiveness, determined to breathe in a way he never allowed her. And he hated being alone, hated the silence she left behind, so he filled it with music, noise, bodies, glitter, and every distraction money could buy.
Someone danced on the table; someone shouted his name; someone handed him an iridescent glass of something sweet and dangerous.
Piggy accepted it with a theatrical bow.
"Long live the heir!" a boy cheered.
"Long live the pig!" another yelled.
He laughed, threw his head back, let the night swallow him whole.
He was the kind of drunk where the world softened, where the neon blurred into something forgiving, where his own reflection looked kinder, less disappointing. Where he could pretend his fiancée didn't leave because he was unbearable. Where he could pretend his parents weren't quietly planning some intervention soon. Where he could pretend he wasn't failing to be the man everyone expected.
He lived for that moment—the moment before guilt sank its claws in.
"Piggy, do another shot!"
"I'll do three!" he declared, as if the alcohol were a challenge to his birthright.
The cheers rose like a small applause.
Yes. This was his kingdom. His glittering circus. His paradise of distraction. And he believed—foolishly—that nothing could touch him here.
But even paradises have cracks.
Even kings are blind.
Somewhere in the far corner of the lounge, two men in nondescript black uniforms stood near the emergency exit. They weren't part of the staff. They weren't guests. They didn't belong to the world that swayed with music and golden light. They watched Adrian with the stillness of hunters.
He didn't see them.
He never saw danger—not truly—because danger was something that happened to other people. Not to heirs. Not to Harringtons. His father was the richest man on earth. His mother was second only in strategic brilliance. Their reality shielded him from consequences.
Or so he thought.
As he laughed with his friends, as he reached for another shot, as he threw an arm around a girl who giggled at a joke he barely finished, the two men began to move.
Slowly.
Purposely.
With the inevitability of a closing door.
He stumbled out of the lounge sometime after midnight, exhausted, buzzing, limbs unsteady. His driver was supposed to meet him at the private entrance—he always used the private entrance; the public one was for mortals.
As he waved goodbye to the last cluster of friends, he felt a sudden emptiness engulf him—the kind he only ever felt when he remembered Sera wasn't in the city anymore.
He muttered, half-angry at himself, half-heartedly dramatic, "Stupid girl… running away from me… I wasn't that clingy…"
He knew that was a lie.
He had always been clingy with her. Never wanted her out of his sight. Always touching, holding, clinging, teasing, pestering. He needed her in ways he didn't understand.
But she was gone now.
And he was left standing in a dim, cold hallway that hummed with solitude.
He sighed, leaned his back against the wall, and pulled out his phone again—scrolling through old photos of them. Her smile. His stupid face pressed against her cheek. His chubby arms wrapped around her as she complained that he was squishing her.
He missed her.
He hated missing her.
He was drunk enough to almost text her.
But then—
A hand gripped his arm.
Hard.
Not playful. Not familiar. Unmistakably hostile.
Adrian blinked, sluggish, confused. "What the—"
A second hand clamped over his mouth.
His phone fell. It shattered on the marble floor.
A jolt of panic sliced through him, cutting through the alcohol fog like a knife. He tried to twist away, tried to laugh it off, tried to believe it was some prank—maybe his friends messing with him, maybe paparazzi trying to get a reaction.
But the grip tightened. Painfully.
And then everything happened too fast.
He was shoved forward. A needle pierced the side of his neck. His breath hitched. The hallway blurred. His knees buckled.
He saw the exit sign tilt sideways.
He tasted metal in his mouth.
And before darkness swallowed him, he had one last, childish, heartbreaking thought:
Dad is going to kill me for this.
Then the floor rushed up to meet him.
His world went black.
Piggy was gone.
And the man he would become—the man the world would one day fear—had just begun to awaken inside the collapsing shell of the boy he used to be.