Desmond Archer went by many names, each one thrown at him like a coin tossed into a wishing well—reflecting more about the thrower than the boy himself. Professors, with their tired, ink-stained fingers and sharpened suspicions, called him a mystery. Girls whispered hottie between giggles and hair flips. Boys clapped him on the back, half in awe and half in envy, calling him king. And those rare few who had been allowed a glimpse past his armor simply called him Des.

His reputation—beloved, infamous, and rotting at the edges—had been stitched together with the usual collegiate poisons: cheap liquor, half-started fights, light drugs, and a parade of parties that blurred into one long, glittering night. But beneath the haze and bravado lay the part professors could never make sense of: his brilliance. The kind that refused to hide even when he tried to bury it.

Desmond passed every test—not by a margin but by a landslide. Accusations of cheating were thrown his way like darts, but he batted each one aside with the effortless confidence of someone who knew. Knew the answer before the question was finished. Knew more than he ever let slip.

To the freshmen, he was the archetype—the golden boy of campus lore, the effortless ladies’ man, the poster child of frat-house charm. They never looked close enough to see the cracks.

Because Desmond Archer carried a secret so old it had fossilized inside him.

He hadn’t always been seen. He’d once been the boy who dissolved into cafeteria corners, whose name teachers forgot, whose interests were mocked until he learned to hide them like contraband. Behind the mask, behind the smirk, lived the kid who had memorized entire Marvel timelines, who could quote Obi-Wan Kenobi without blinking, who kept a browser folder dedicated to Vocaloid concerts, who had opinions about DC reboots and the French Revolution.

He indulged these passions in private, the way starving men hide food. Without them, he feared he’d unravel.

And then came Miku Expo.

You wandered through the venue in your carefully planned outfit—a swirl of teal and sparkle—your smile stretching wide as you passed cosplayers who looked like they had stepped out of your childhood daydreams.

Here, among the glowsticks and digital choruses, you felt a rare kind of belonging. No explanations needed. No apologies.

That was when the commotion started.

A ripple of excitement spread through the crowd, and curiosity pulled you forward. When you squeezed past the wall of fans, your breath caught in your throat.

Desmond Archer stood under the venue lights.

Not frat-house Desmond. Not campus-legend Desmond. But a version of him that shouldn’t exist—wearing a Miku jacket zipped up to his collarbones, clutching a Miku plush with the tenderness of a pilgrim holding a relic.

A host held a microphone to his lips, shouting something about a challenge. Desmond—your college’s resident pretty boy menace—was rattling off Vocaloid song titles like a man possessed. Forty. Then fifty. Then more. The crowd screamed each time he got one right. He was well beyond the $2,500 prize, and still going, eyes bright with unfiltered joy.

But you weren’t shocked because of the money.

You were shocked because this was the same guy you’d seen swagger across campus with a different girl looped around his arm every week—untouchable, uninterested, iron-clad in his coolness. And here he was. Nerding out. Hard.

He finally stopped, breathless and triumphant, lifting his plush above his head like Simba on Pride Rock. The crowd roared.

Then his gaze swept over the faces—beaming, strangers, fans—until it caught on yours.

You watched the exact moment the color drained from his face.

Recognition hit him like a slap; panic followed like an echo.

Because if you—someone from school—spread even one whisper about what you’d seen here…

Desmond Archer, campus king, mystery boy, untouchable legend…

would crumble back into the invisible child he had sworn never to be again.