Failure tastes like stale coffee and regret, and Jaxon Vile was drowning in both.
Hunched over his cracked laptop in a dim, roach-infested apartment, he scrolled through his seventeen blog posts—life hacks, morality, motivation, each one a swing and a miss. The stats sneered: 23 views on "10 Ways to Stay Positive," 12 on "The Power of Kindness." His "Healthy Vibe Hub," stamped with his name and dreams, was a digital ghost town.
He slumped in his creaky chair, rubbing his temples, the weight of his broke-ass life pressing his chest flat. Twenty-eight, jobless, scraping by in a world that didn't give a damn. His stomach growled, but he ignored, as he clicked refresh one last time. No change. Nobody cared.
The screen's glow flickered like mockery — a dying heartbeat for dreams already cold.
Kayla was his lifeline—her smile, her voice, the one spark in this shithole. He grabbed his phone, fingers stiff from cold, craving a late-night chat to pull him from the edge. He hit video call. The screen flickered, buffering in the weak Wi-Fi. Kayla answered, her face filling the frame.
For a heartbeat, her face alone made the world feel survivable.
"Jax, hey," she said, voice breathy, cheeks flushed, sweat beading on her forehead. The camera jerked—up, down, wild, like she was caught in a storm. Her dark hair bounced, eyes half-shut, lips parted. "What's…hmmm… what's up?"
Jaxon's gut twisted, a cold knot forming. "Kay, you good? Why's the screen shaking like that?"
No answer. A moan slipped from her lips, low, guttural, slicing through his chest like glass. She pressed her lips together but the muffled breaths still escaped.
The camera tilted, and there it was—her bare skin, glistening, breasts swaying, body arched in rhythm. Naked. Jaxon's breath hitched, his phone slipping in his sweaty grip, nearly dropping. "Kayla, what the—"
He froze, mind blank, the world collapsing into a single, unbearable sound.
He heard it, tat-tat-tat… unending. A pace he had never matched.
The screen shifted. Corey's face appeared, dreads swinging, lips curled in a smug grin, holding Kayla's phone. "Yo, Jax, my bad, man," Corey said, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "She… shhhhhh, ahhh, she says you're sloppy, bro. Can't fuck her right. I'm just picking up the slack."
"What! Corey? She's my… Kayla…"
"Yes…right there Corey… harder… faster… arghhhh. Awnnn…"
He clapped his hands over his ears, but her gasps burrowed in, raw and relentless, synced with the wet slap of skin on skin.
"Say my name, say my fucking name…"
"Corey…"
Kayla's phone fell, camera landing crooked—Kayla's legs spread wide, Corey's hands gripping her hips, her body rocking under him, nails digging into his back.
Jaxon stumbled back, heart pounding, vision blurring. He gripped his hair, yanking until strands tore free, pacing the worn carpet, socks catching on frayed patches, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
The sound of betrayal was worse than the sight — it tore through him like a scream that wouldn't end.
His mind reeled, flashing to every sacrifice. He'd skipped dinners, stomach growling, to buy Kayla that silver necklace she wore every day, its cheap clasp glinting in his memory.
Her mother's hand cracked across his face at Thanksgiving, again and again, the sting lingering as she spat, "You're a loser, Jaxon. Kayla deserves better." He'd taken it, head bowed, for Kayla. He felt the slaps again, and realized Kayla wasn't worth it.
And Corey—Jaxon had poured his soul into writing lyrics for that bastard's breakout single, spent sleepless nights crafting posts on X to hype his pop-star climb. Corey's song went viral because of Jaxon's words, his hustle. Jaxon's own posts? Dead on arrival. Corey cashed his first big check, and of all the women in the world, he picked Kayla.
He had built their thrones with his own bare hands — now they were dancing on his grave.
Jaxon's chest heaved, a sob choking out, hot tears streaking his face. He'd played the good guy, the dreamer, pouring his heart into them both. For what? To watch his girlfriend fuck his best friend on a live call, her moans a public execution of his pride, his manhood.
He punched the wall, knuckles splitting, blood smearing the cracked drywall. He punched again, the thud echoing, pain shooting through his hand. It didn't touch the wound inside—his life, his love, his trust, shredded in seconds. He was nothing, a failure, a punchline in a world that mocked his dreams.
For years, he'd whispered affirmations to himself. Tonight, silence answered back. "No no no, not me! Why do bad things happen to good…" his sobs made him choke on his words.
He snatched his phone, fingers trembling, ready to nuke his accounts—blog, socials, every trace of his pointless hustle. His thumb hovered over the app, but he froze.
He realized he'd recorded the call, a reflex from capturing moments. He knew Kayla wouldn't talk long, so he would listen to the conversations all over.
But the video sat there, a loaded gun. He hit play, hands shaking. Kayla's flushed face filled the screen, lips parted, eyes rolling back as she moaned, her body writhing under Corey's thrusts, sweat-slicked curves catching the light.
The thrusts were real, the reactions; more real, all with their faces. He couldn't watch.
Jaxon's throat tightened, tears spilling, but his eyes stayed glued, a twisted pull keeping him locked on the screen. Corey's taunt looped: Sloppy. Can't fuck her right.
He took a deep breath.
Shame and desire tangled, ugly and inseparable. It wasn't love anymore — it was obsession, hollow and devouring.
He gripped the phone, thumb twitching over delete. But something darker stirred. Use it! The thought dropped.
He realized. This wasn't just pain. It was gold. The internet—wild, wide, a stage where Gen Z and Millennials, scrolling X, TikTok, Facebook, Instagram and more, chasing scandals, gists, breaking news—was starving for this.
He saw the influencers he despised, influencers without reasonable contents, raking in millions by leaking secrets, stirring hate, thriving on chaos.
He stopped pacing, fists unclenching, eyes narrowing at the phone's glow. "But why not?" He paused, took some breaths and continued pacing. "Why can't I be like that if that's what works?"
His dreams of a good life—wholesome posts, honest hustle—had left him broke, betrayed. The world rewarded the ruthless, the loud, the shameless.
Maybe goodness had been his greatest sin.
Jaxon shook his head, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his brow. He saved the video. His fingers flew, opening his page. "Jaxon's Healthy Vibe Hub" morphed into "Nasty Troll Lord."
The name felt like a blade, sharp, cutting away his old self. He typed a post, words spilling like acid: Welcome to the nasty world. I'm done being nice. The Troll Lord's here, and you'll never starve for drama.
His chest tightened, pulse hammering in his ears. He felt something uncoil inside him — a monster that had been waiting for permission to speak.
He paused, thumb trembling. The internet was a beast, hungry for blood, fueled by clicks and outrage. He refreshed his page. Seven new followers. Three comments: Who's this guy? Drop the tea! What's next?
They were hooked, waiting, eyes on him. His heart thudded, loud enough to drown out the hum of his dying laptop. He opened the video—no edits, no blurs. Kayla's moans, Corey's smirk, every detail raw, unfiltered. He tagged them: Corey Blaze, pop star fraud. Kayla Reed, cheap slut. Best friend and girlfriend, fucked up, right? The words felt like spitting in their faces, a release, a reclaiming. He hit post and logged out.
The moment his finger pressed "on Facebook," he felt it — the rush of power, the silence before a storm that would never stop.
Jaxon paced, counting to five hundred, each step a drumbeat on the creaky floor. The walls closed in, mildew thick in the air, the weight of what he'd done pressing down.
His media accounts were linked, with automated updates on all others.
He'd exposed his shame, his heartbreak, for the world to gawk. His knuckles throbbed, blood crusting. The thrill was electric, but his stomach churned—had he gone too far?
He saw Kayla's necklace in his mind, Corey's grin, his own words building their success. All gone. He kept counting, pacing, the numbers grounding him.
He told himself it was revenge — but it was really resurrection. And every resurrection demands a death.
At five hundred steps, he logged back in. Notifications erupted—pings, buzzes, a digital storm. Thousands of views. A thousand new followers. Likes stacking like poker chips, comments exploding: No fucking way, this real? Corey's fucked! She's wild! Troll Lord's insane! The internet was eating it up, ravenous, sharing, retweeting, memeing.
"What! Oh my God! Oh my fuckiiiiiiiing Gad!"
His phone chimed again. An email: Monetization Pending – Welcome to the Partner Program!
"Monetization? I've waited for months!"
Jaxon's jaw dropped, his hands shaking. Money. Real money. From one post. Views climbed, followers surged, his name trending on X. The world saw him—Jaxon Vile, the Nasty Troll Lord, born in pain, baptized in hate.
Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered — You can't come back from this. But another voice, louder, colder, answered — I don't want to.
He sank into his chair, staring at the screen, the numbers ticking higher. "Is this a dream?"
He realized it's not. His eyes hovered at the notifications buzzing like a swarm, his lips curling into a shaky grin.