When I pushed open the door to my bedroom, Toby was balanced precariously on a chair, his fingers straining toward the heavy metal lockbox perched on the very top shelf of my wardrobe. He didn't expect me back so early. The sudden creak of the hinges sent a jolt through him; his grip slipped, and my $45,000 Patek Philippe hit the mattress with a sickening, muffled thud. His eyes darted everywhere but at me, his face flushing a guilty, blotchy red. "Gavin... I was... I just wanted to look at it..." I didn't move. I just watched him. "My roommate was right," Toby blurted out, his voice rising in a defensive whine. "You wouldn't even let me borrow a watch for one night. You’ve always been looking for reasons to lock me out!" I didn't waste breath on an argument. I walked straight over, grabbed a handful of his hair to steady him, and delivered a sharp, stinging backhand across his face. The sound of the slap cracked through the silence of the room like a gunshot. The commotion brought my parents running. They burst in from the living room, faces tight with alarm. Toby immediately collapsed onto the bed, clutching his cheek and wailing. "Dad! Mom! He hit me! Gavin’s trying to kill me!" My mother’s eyes didn't go to Toby first. They landed on the Patek Philippe lying on the duvet. Her expression went from shock to a cold, stony gray. She turned on her heel, marched to the mudroom, and returned a second later with a heavy, thick-soled leather clog in her hand. She didn't hand it to Toby to comfort him. She shoved it into my palm. "Your hand will get sore if you keep using your palm," she said, her voice trembling with a terrifying, quiet rage. "Use this. And don't you dare stop until I say so." "We’ve given you everything, Toby," she hissed, turning her gaze to my brother. "And you repay us by becoming a common thief in your own home? Gavin, hit him. Hard." I gripped the shoe, the weight of it familiar and solid, and brought it down across Toby’s back. The dull whack echoed against the walls. 1 The sound of the impact was heavy, followed by Toby’s shrill cry as he scrambled across the floor. "Mom! Dad! Help me! He’s actually going to kill me!" My father stood in the doorway, his face a mask of granite. He reached back, gripped the handle, and shut the bedroom door firmly. He didn't leave even a crack for the light to escape. "Do it," Dad said, his voice dropping an octave. "If he’s stealing from his own blood today, he’ll be robbing strangers at knifepoint tomorrow. Better he learns the cost of it here than in a cell." I swung again. Toby had been the baby of the family, coddled and cushioned from every sharp edge the world had to offer. These hits were the first real consequences he’d ever felt, and he was falling apart, sobbing and crawling toward the corner. I planted a boot firmly in the center of his back, pinning him to the carpet. "What did you do wrong?" I asked, looking down at him. Toby was a mess of tears and snot, shielding his head with his arms. "I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have touched your stuff! Gavin, please, just stop!" WHACK. I hit him again. "Liar," I said coldly. "You said your roommate told you I was 'locking you out.' Give me the details. Who is he, what exactly did he say, and what were you going to do with my watch?" Toby flinched, refusing to look up. I increased the pressure of my boot on his spine until he let out a strangled yelp. He broke. "I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! It’s Dexter! Dexter said he was going to a birthday party for some billionaire’s kid this weekend, and he’d look like a loser if he didn't have the right accessories." "He knew you had the Patek. He told me to 'borrow' it so he could make an impression!" My mother let out a sharp, derisive laugh. "He asked to borrow it, so you decided to steal it?" Toby looked up, his face swollen and tear-streaked, radiating a pathetic sense of martyrdom. "I wanted to ask Gavin... I did! But Dexter said Gavin is too arrogant and selfish, that he’d never say yes..." "He said we’re brothers. That what’s yours is mine. He said taking it for a few days isn't 'stealing'—it’s just sharing. He said if I didn't help him, it was because I looked down on him for being a 'scholarship kid.' That I was just another elitist jerk..." I felt a wave of genuine nausea. A forty-five-thousand-dollar piece of horology, and this kid wanted to 'borrow' it to play dress-up. And if I said no, I was the villain. It was the kind of toxic, bottom-feeding logic that made my skin crawl, and Toby had swallowed it whole. 2 "So, because he’s poor, he’s entitled to my life’s work?" I asked. Toby sniffled, trying to find his footing. "Gavin, you don't understand. Dexter’s had it rough. He scrapes by on nothing... he just has a lot of pride. He needs to make connections at that party. It could change his life." "A watch is nothing to you," Toby added, his voice regaining a sliver of that borrowed self-righteousness. "But for him, it’s a gateway to a future." I kicked him square in the shoulder, flipping him onto his back. "Nothing to me?" I leaned down, grabbed his collar, and hauled him up until we were eye-to-eye. "I bought that watch with the first real profit from my startup. I worked twenty-hour days for three years to earn that 'nothing.' And you’re going to give away my blood and sweat so some parasite can 'change his life'? You’re playing Robin Hood with your own brother’s heart?" My father stepped forward, pulling a chair from the desk and sitting down. When he spoke, the room felt smaller. "Toby," Dad said. "This Dexter... does he make a habit of 'borrowing' from you?" Toby shook his head violently. "No! He’s a great guy! He... he gets me coffee when I'm pulling an all-night study session!" Mom walked over to Toby’s closet and yanked the door open. It was half-empty. His North Face parkas, his designer hoodies—all gone. She turned to his desk. The $3,000 MacBook Pro we’d bought him for his birthday two weeks ago was nowhere to be seen. "Where are your coats, Toby? Where is your laptop?" Mom’s voice was like a whip. Toby’s eyes went shifty. He stammered for a moment before whispering, "Dexter had an interview. He needed to look the part... and the laptop... we just share it in the dorm. He couldn't afford a good one, and I didn't want to be that guy. I didn't want to be 'the rich kid'." I laughed, but there was no humor in it. I dropped the shoe. "Fine," I said, dusting off my hands. I turned toward the door. "Gavin, where are you going?" Toby asked, panic lacing his voice. "To help your 'best friend' find his destiny." I drove to Toby’s university dorm with a cold, vibrating clarity. It was 9:00 PM. The hallways of the sophomore wing were buzzing with the usual Friday night energy. I walked straight to Room 304 and didn't bother knocking. I kicked the door so hard the frame groaned. BOOM. The door flew open. Three guys were inside. Two were sprawled on their bunks, staring at their phones; they nearly jumped out of their skins. The third guy was standing in front of a full-length mirror, admiring his reflection. He was wearing a limited-edition varsity jacket I’d bought Toby for his birthday. He was decked out in name brands from head to toe. On his desk sat Toby’s MacBook. This was Dexter. He froze, his brow furrowing as he processed my intrusion. "Who the hell are you? You ever hear of knocking?" I didn't say a word. I crossed the room in three strides, grabbed a handful of his carefully styled hair, and slammed him down to the floor. Dexter let out a sharp, pathetic shriek as he hit the linoleum. The two roommates scrambled into the corners of their beds, eyes wide, terrified. I put my weight onto my boot, pinning Dexter’s shoulder to the ground, and gripped his chin, forcing him to look at me. "I’m Toby’s brother." I stared into his eyes, my voice a low, lethal hum. "A forty-five-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe. You really had the balls to ask for that?" 3 Dexter’s face went ghost-white. He struggled under my boot, but I didn't budge. "What are you doing? Get off me! Toby said I could have it! You can't just break in here and assault me!" Dexter screamed. "Borrow it?" I leaned down and delivered a sharp slap to his face. The sound echoed in the cramped room. His lip split instantly, a bead of dark blood blooming on the corner of his mouth. "I paid for that watch. Toby doesn't have the authority to lend out my property," I said. Dexter’s eyes welled with tears. He realized he couldn't overpower me, so he pivoted. He looked toward his roommates, his face contorting into a mask of fragile, victimized innocence. "Caleb, Sam! Call campus security! He’s crazy! Just because he has money doesn't mean he can hunt us down! He’s bullying us because we’re not like him!" The roommate named Caleb looked conflicted. "Hey, man... maybe just let him up? Dexter said Toby was cool with it. Toby’s always giving him stuff. Can't we just talk about this?" "Talk?" I looked at Caleb. "He manipulated a nineteen-year-old kid into committing grand larceny. That’s a felony. Are you sure you want to be the character witness for a felon?" Caleb shut his mouth and backed away, his face pale. Dexter was still squirming, clutching the varsity jacket like it was his own skin. "I didn't steal anything! Toby wanted to help me! You’re just a psycho who’s jealous because Toby actually likes me!" I knelt down, my face inches from his. "Take it off." Dexter blinked. "What?" "The jacket. I paid for it. Take it off. Now." Dexter clutched the lapels, sobbing. "You’re a monster! Toby gave this to me! You can't just strip me in front of everyone!" I didn't argue. I just grabbed the collar and yanked. The expensive silk lining tore with a jagged, ugly sound, exposing his t-shirt underneath. Dexter screamed and curled into a ball, weeping as if I were the villain in a Dickens novel. "Help! He’s killing me! The rich guy is trying to kill me!" A crowd was already gathering in the hallway, students peeking in, the murmur of voices growing louder. Someone started recording on their phone. Seeing his audience, Dexter’s performance went into overdrive. He crawled toward the doorway, reaching out to the onlookers. "Please! Someone help! I just borrowed a jacket, and his brother broke in to beat me up! Do we even matter to people like him? Are we just trash to be stepped on?" The whispers from the hallway turned sharp. "That’s messed up." "You can't treat people like that, no matter how much money you have." "Call the cops. This is assault." I stood in the center of the room, cold and detached. I pulled a wet wipe from my pocket and slowly cleaned the blood from my knuckles. It was a classic move. The weaponized victimhood of the "underdog." 4 He’d wrapped himself in the armor of poverty, using it as a get-out-of-jail-free card, banking on the collective empathy of the crowd. Just then, the dorm supervisor and the faculty advisor, Mr. Henderson, pushed through the throng. Henderson took one look at Dexter—bloody, disheveled, and weeping—and his face turned a bright, indignant red. "What is going on here? Who is responsible for this?" Dexter lunged for Henderson’s legs, sobbing into his slacks. "Save me! Toby’s brother... he just started hitting me! He tore my clothes! He’s trying to humiliate me in front of everyone!" Henderson glared at me. "You’re Toby’s family? How dare you bring this kind of violence onto this campus! Do you have any idea how many laws you’ve just broken?" I tossed the used wet wipe into the trash can. "Mr. Henderson, right? This boy spent the last four hours convincing my brother to steal a forty-five-thousand-dollar luxury watch from my home. As the owner of the property and the victim of an attempted theft, I’m here to recover my stolen goods and address a criminal. You have a problem with that?" Henderson blinked. The crowd went silent. "Forty-five thousand? Theft?" Henderson stammered, looking down at Dexter. Dexter shook his head frantically. "I didn't! He’s making it up! I just asked Toby if I could wear it for a night! I didn't know he was going to 'steal' it! I’m innocent!" Henderson looked relieved, shifting back into his "peacekeeper" role. "Look, Mr. ...?" "Gavin." "Mr. Gavin. This is clearly a misunderstanding. Dexter is one of our top scholarship students. He’s had a very difficult life, but he’s a hard worker. He wouldn't do something like this." "Since nothing was actually stolen, let’s keep this in the family. Bringing this kind of drama to the school is bad for everyone. Apologize to Dexter, cover his medical bills, and we can forget this ever happened." I let out a short, sharp laugh. "Apologize? Pay him?" I walked over to Dexter’s desk. "Where’s the rest of the stuff Toby 'gave' you?" Dexter cowered behind Henderson, silent. I brushed past Henderson and looked at the desk. It wasn't just the laptop. There were limited-edition collectible figures, high-end headphones, all things I’d bought for Toby over the years. I picked up a rare, $500 glass-sculpted figurine. CRASH. I dropped it. It shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. "What are you doing!" Henderson shouted. I didn't answer. I picked up a pair of $600 Sennheiser headphones and snapped the headband like a twig. The room was filled with the rhythmic sound of destruction. Dexter watched the wreckage of his "gifts" with a look of pure agony. "You’re insane! Those are mine!" "Yours?" I stopped and looked him in the eye. "You’re a 'scholarship student' who qualified for the Pell Grant, yet you have over ten thousand dollars worth of luxury tech and collectibles on your desk. And you’re telling me they’re yours?" The students in the hall started murmuring again, but the tone had changed. They were looking at Dexter’s desk with new eyes. Dexter’s face went through a kaleidoscope of colors—red, white, then a sickly gray. "Toby didn't want them! He gave them to me! Is it a crime for a poor person to have nice things?" 5 I was done listening to his lies. I walked to his wardrobe and ripped it open. A dozen designer shirts. Three pairs of Balenciaga sneakers. Every single one was a piece I had helped Toby pick out at the boutique. I tore them off the hangers and threw them into the pile of broken glass on the floor, stepping on them for good measure. "Toby 'gave' you these too?" I asked. Dexter grit his teeth, tears streaming down his face. "Yes! He has so much, he can't even wear it all! Why shouldn't I have a turn?" "Is it a 'turn,' Dexter? Or is it a shakedown?" I pulled out my phone and pulled up Toby’s Venmo history. I held it up to Henderson’s face. "Look at this, Mr. Henderson. In the last month alone, Dexter has had Toby pay for over fifteen DoorDash orders—all of them expensive steakhouse or sushi dinners. Dexter’s phone bill? Toby paid it. That brand-new iPhone in his pocket? Toby bought it on a monthly installment plan." I turned back to Dexter. "You didn't find a friend in Toby. You found a vein, and you’ve been draining him dry while telling him it’s 'sharing.' You aren't just poor, Dexter. You’re a parasite." Dexter snapped. He stood up, pointing a finger at me, his voice shaking with rage. "Shut up! Toby wanted to spend that money! What do you know about friendship? You’re just a cold-blooded shark who thinks everything has a price tag!" I took a step toward him. He flinched so hard he hit the wardrobe door. That’s when I saw it. A secondary phone, half-hidden in the top drawer of his nightstand. I reached for it. Dexter turned into a wild animal, lunging for my arm. "Don't touch that! That’s my private property! You’re a thief!" I swept his leg, and he hit the floor with a heavy thud, kneeling before me. I picked up the phone. It wasn't locked. I tapped the photo gallery. My stomach did a slow, sickening roll.
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