NOVGO.NET Chapter 784: Jack Crafted Reality
Chapter 784: Jack Crafted Reality
The rooftop of Lincoln Heights High tasted like ash, broken glass, and the exact sour flavor of failure that hits when you realize the universe didn’t just fuck you over—it singled you out, bent you over, and laughed while it did.
Jack Morrison—six-foot-three, two hundred fifteen pounds of what used to be flawless, carved-from-marble perfection—gripped the rusted railing until the metal groaned and his knuckles split white, then red. The November wind ripped across the concrete like it was hunting for soft spots, dragging LA smog, the threat of rain, and the faint, rotting smell of his own collapsing future.
Below him, Lincoln Heights laid itself bare like a coroner’s report on everything he’d ever been.
East side: Victorian mansions with wraparound porches, lawns so green they looked photoshopped, BMWs and Range Rovers gleaming under security lights like they knew they were better than everything else. His bloodline’s territory. His birthright. Three generations of Morrison men who’d walked this city like they owned the air itself—because they basically did. Kings didn’t need to prove shit when the crown came pre-installed in the DNA.
West side: sagging apartment blocks patched with hope and government vouchers, corner stores with iron bars over the windows, cars on cinder blocks or held together with duct tape and prayers. The side of town where people like Peter Carter were supposed to stay buried. Supposed to crawl. Supposed to know their place.
Except Peter Carter wasn’t crawling anymore.
He was flying.
And Jack—Jack was the one eating dirt now, choking on handfuls of it, drowning in the grave Peter had dug with nothing but time, silence, and the kind of patient hate that turns boys into legends.
The phone in his pocket buzzed again. Fifth time in ten minutes. He yanked it out, stared at the screen, and felt something cold and final settle in his gut.
Instagram notification: @tommy_chen tagged you in a post
Thumb moved before his brain could stop it. App opened. Post loaded.
There it was. The blade. Still lodged deep, still turning.
Peter Carter—Peter fucking Carter—leaning against a blacked-out Rolls-Royce Phantom that cost more than Jack’s dad’s last divorce lawyer bill.
Arm draped around Madison Torres like she belonged there. She had her head on his shoulder, long hair spilling over his chest, eyes half-lidded in that post-fuck glow that used to be reserved for Jack. Peter’s hand rested low on her waist, fingers spread wide, possessive, claiming. Both of them smiling—slow, satisfied, the kind of smile that says they’d already fucked senseless that morning and were already planning round two.
Caption: "From nothing to everything. Thanks to everyone who believed in my brother 🙏"
Forty-three thousand likes. Four thousand comments. Climbing fast.
King energy fr fr How tf did bro glow up THIS hard??? Madison and Peter clearing every other couple This is what happens when good people finally win
Jack’s vision bled red at the edges.
Good people.
Good fucking people.
Peter Carter—the kid who’d spent eight years swallowing Jack’s fists, Jack’s words, Jack’s spit in the hallway, the kid who’d flinched at every shoulder-check and still showed up the next day—was a good person now.
The underdog who clawed his way up. The main character in a story where Jack was the cartoon villain everyone paid to see get curb-stomped.
And the worst part?
They were right.
And now the whole school—hell, the whole internet—was crowning him.
The hero. The comeback king. The protagonist.
Jack was the villain everyone rooted against. And they were right.
He’d loved being the villain. Loved the way hallways parted when he walked through. Loved the way girls whispered his name like a prayer or a curse depending on how wet they were that day. Loved the power to make someone smaller just by looking at them. Loved that he could hurt people and they’d still beg for his attention, still spread for him, still tell their friends how good he was—even when he knew the truth.
Because the truth was the one thing he’d buried deeper than any grave.
And Jack?
Jack was alone on a rooftop, scrolling through his own public execution, four thousand strangers cheering every fresh cut.
His hands shook so hard the phone screen spiderwebbed—not from impact, just from the raw fury leaking out of his pores and into the glass.
He should smash it. Hurl it off the edge. Watch it explode five stories down on the pavement like his life already had.
But he couldn’t look away.
Because that photo—Peter’s calm, victorious smirk, Madison’s head on his shoulder, the Rolls-Royce gleaming like a middle finger—was the only heat left in his chest.
Hate was all he had now. And it burned hotter than any love he’d ever faked.
Three months ago, Jack Morrison had been a god.
Wealth that arrived before he asked for it. Status that made college recruiters drool and forget about his test scores.
Power that came from a last name that opened doors and crushed throats. And the body—fuck, the body. Six-three. Two-fifteen. Blonde hair that fell just right. Blue eyes that made girls forget their own names. Abs you could grate diamonds on.
Arms that benched three plates like it was nothing.
The kind of physique that turned locker-room glances into envy and girls’ bathrooms into confessionals.
He was the blueprint.
The standard every other guy at Lincoln Heights failed to meet.
Except for one flaw. One tiny, vicious, soul-eating detail he’d spent his entire teenage life overcompensating for.
Pinky-finger-tiny-cocky. Hard. Thin. Quick to finish. Pathetic.
The first time he’d ever been inside a girl—sophomore year, drunk off stolen vodka, some cheerleader whose name he’d erased—she’d giggled. Not a nervous laugh. A real one. Sharp. Cruel.
"Is that... it?" she’d asked, looking down like she’d expected more and found a joke instead.
Fifteen years old, naked, hard as he’d ever been, and she’d laughed like his dick was the punchline to a joke he wasn’t in on.
Two minutes, maybe three if he really focused, and then it was over and he’d see that look in her eyes. The disappointment she didn’t try to hide. The knowledge that this was it, that this was all he had to offer.
He’d never forgotten that sound. Never forgiven it.
So, he’d built an empire on top of it. He’d fucked harder, longer (with toys, fingers, tongue—anything to keep them moaning instead of laughing). He’d made girls come so many times with toys and other improvisions they forgot to check the size.
He’d dated the hottest ones, paraded them, made sure everyone knew they belonged to him—even if he never let them see him fully hard in the light. Condoms helped. Darkness helped. Lies helped more.
So, he’d built an empire to make sure no woman ever got the chance to laugh again.
That’s where Sofia came in.
Sofia Delgado—soft-spoken, doe-eyed, the kind of girl who apologized even when you stepped on her—had been fucking perfect.
Not in bed.
Jack knew he couldn’t nut with her any more than he could with the rest of them even if she allowed him to fuck her which she didn’t. Five inches didn’t deliver climaxes; it delivered excuses, quick finishes, and the slow poison of shame he drowned in afterward.
But Sofia was perfect for everything else.
Her father had sniffed out the angle like a shark smelling blood in the water. Delgado Construction: solid regional player, hungry for the next level. Morrison Construction: the goddamn empire, swallowing luxury builds from Santa Monica to San Diego.
Marry the kids off? You didn’t just merge companies—you forged a monopoly. Billions locked in. Generational wealth welded together tighter than any contract.
So Sofia became the deal. A walking merger agreement in lip gloss and nervous smiles. Her old man—Bill Delgado, that ruthless, ladder-climbing prick—had pulled her aside one night after the family dinner plates were cleared and laid it out cold:
"Mija, this isn’t about prom pictures or first kisses. This is bigger than your heart. This is our bloodline’s future. You stay with him. You keep him smiling. You give him whatever he wants. No matter what."
She couldn’t walk. Couldn’t ghost. Couldn’t even cry too loud without risking the Delgado name getting erased from every bid sheet in Southern California.
And Jack? Jack took full advantage.
He made her play cocktail waitress at his ragers—short skirt, heels clicking, fetching Coronas for his boys while they openly rated her ass like it was on a Yelp review. He made her perch on his lap during house parties, thighs spread just enough for his teammates to watch—and still she smiled, small and trembling, because leaving meant her dad’s company died.
He dressed her like a humiliation fetish board: crop tops that barely covered nipple, skirts so short a breeze showed everything, outfits that screamed "look at me, I’m owned."
He made her dance when she was bone-tired, grind against him in front of everyone while they catcalled. Degradation after degradation—verbal, physical, public—because watching her eyes go glassy with that broken, resigned acceptance was the only thing that ever got his pathetic dick twitching anymore.
He couldn’t fuck her right. Couldn’t pound her into screaming his name. Couldn’t fill her up and leave her wrecked the way real men did in the videos he jerked to alone at 3 a.m.
But he could make her suffer. And that suffering—the exact second her face crumpled when she realized he was about to humiliate her again, that quiet, defeated exhale, that whispered "okay, Jack"—got him off harder than any pussy ever had.
Power. Control. Total fucking domination. The only orgasm a five-inch disappointment could still chase.
Sofia had been tailor-made for it. Until Peter Carter stole her right out from under him.
"Peter."
Peter...
The name alone made Jack’s jaw lock so tight his teeth ached like they might crack.
"Peter fucking Carter."
The nobody. The charity-case punching bag. The spineless little shit who’d spent eight years eating Jack’s abuse like it was breakfast and still showed up smiling the next day.
Jack’s hate for him wasn’t normal. It wasn’t "he annoys me" or "he’s in my way." It was bone-deep, inherited, religious. The kind of hate that grew teeth and lived in your nightmares.