Golden Boy

Excerpt

Golden Boy
Freddie Braun © 2026
All Rights Reserved

If I’d known that overcast Tuesday would set off a chain of events that would turn me into a killer—and I’d end up scrubbing someone else’s blood off my hands—I’d have stayed in the safety of the taxi. Instead, I stepped onto the rain-slicked pavement of Union Street, Aberdeen’s late September chill cutting straight to the bone. Looking back, I still can’t believe how ordinary it all seemed. Just another Tuesday. As I fumbled with a few crumpled bills, the driver’s Scottish brogue rolled over me, thick enough to pass for another language.

“Cheers, lad,” he said. His face was all deep lines and North Sea weather, shaped by too many nights with a bottle for company. When he added, “Mind yerself out there,” something in his tone made me pause. Was he warning me?

I told myself it was just nerves—maybe the cold, or the strangeness of it all—but the unease felt older than that, like something I’d carried for years, tucked between ribs. And if I was honest, I could already feel it: my chest tightening, each breath growing thicker, harder to catch. I nodded, my mouth set in something halfway to gratitude, but the stench gnawed at the edges of my thoughts—rotting fish, almost alive in its reek, as if it moved with its own consciousness, hell-bent on violating the natural order of things.

The driver caught my grimace and offered a tobacco-smudged grin. “Don’t worry, ye’ll get used to the smell,” he said, then pulled away, his cab swallowed by the grey.

My duffel bag thudded against my hip as I made my way toward campus, each step a little heavier with doubt. Above, seagulls wheeled and screamed, their cries sharp enough to peel skin—restless, hungry for something they hadn’t found yet. Ancient-looking cobblestones resisted each step. Goosebumps rose across my bare legs as fine mist settled into my clothes like a second skin. There I was, standing woefully misplaced in basketball shorts, a white T-shirt, a beige fleece jacket, and baseball cap, foolishly dressed for New York summer in Scottish autumn. A dead rat sprawled near the curb, its bloated body hosting a wake of flies, while granite buildings pressed through the fog like prehistoric giants. Without the gulls, the silence would’ve smothered me. Loaded, still, and waiting to cut if I breathed wrong.

So caught up in the overload of it all, I didn’t even see the university building until I was about to walk straight into it. I flinched back, head snapping up, a sharp gasp in my throat. Then I saw it. Neo-Gothic spires clawed at the clouds—pure Lovecraft—forcing my head back as I took in its magnitude. I’d only seen buildings like this on a screen, never standing in front of me, real and impossible.

“Holy shit,” I muttered under my breath.

The website’s glossy images hadn’t prepared me. In person, the building was massive, its stone walls cold and rough, battered by years of rain. Carvings lined the entrance, weathered but still sharp in places. I could hear something from inside—a hum, maybe footsteps. Leaded glass windows gave off a dull reflection, hiding whatever was behind them. I kept looking, higher still. Towers rose into low clouds, and leering gargoyles growled at the sky, while water stains traced dark tears down the weather-beaten façade.

A hand-lettered sign, bright and jarring, jolted me from my stupor: “Welcome, Freshers!” Its plastic cheerfulness seemed almost sacrilegious against this noble backdrop, a neon smear across a canvas of the past.

“What the hell is a Fresher?” I mumbled, tugging my useless jacket closer.

“Lost, are we?” A cheerful voice cut through my thoughts. I blinked through the soft grey haze to find its source. She stood in an orange windbreaker, her ponytail flicking with every movement. As she approached, her face broke into a warm smile that made the grey afternoon lift, if only slightly.

“New to campus, eh?” she asked. She had the confidence of someone who specialised in rescuing lost souls. I nodded.

“Let me enlighten you,” she chuckled, her jacket blazing against the granite. “I’m Ellie, a Freshers’ Helper. Think of me as your official guide through the maze of Aberdeen uni life.” She flung an arm wide, sending her flyers spinning in the breeze as she gestured to the expansive campus. “You, my friend, are a Fresher. That’s what we call the new blood around here. And trust me—you’re in for a wild ride.”

Then, with a grand sweep of her hand, as if unveiling a stage, she turned and led me into the waiting mouth of the university.

*****

The Great Hall revealed itself in breathtaking majesty, its towering ceilings dissolving into shadow where ancient wooden beams crossed like dark branches high above. Crystal chandeliers hovered in the hush above, dripping warm light that shimmered and flickered. All across the room, students clustered around long tables draped in velvet beneath banners that shifted with the movement of air, crests I didn’t recognise fluttering like they meant something. The air smelled of paper, polish, and years—dense with everything that had been read and remembered here. Ellie moved ahead of me, gliding over the marble floor like she belonged to it. The crowd parted for her, almost without realising. Stained glass scattered colour across her path, and her jacket flared like fire, impossible to miss.

That image lingered in my mind as I trudged up the freezing concrete stairs of my student hall, a brutalist monolith students swore was based on a Swedish women’s prison—a rumour older than most of us. I could see why. The air hit me: damp with age-old mould and the bite of adolescent sweat, like the walls hadn’t breathed in years. My nose scrunched. With each step to the second floor, my sense of foreboding grew. Fluorescent bulbs flickered overhead, casting sickly shadows along abandoned corridors. I reached my door and stopped cold. My hands, slick with nerves, fumbled with the key. I thrust it into the lock with too much force and—holding my breath—turned it counterclockwise.

I exhaled. The room that greeted me was stark, a sharp note of bleach cutting through staler scents. The blue carpet beneath my feet held ghosts of past residents, stale vomit and forgotten regrets ground deep into every fibre. A rust-streaked sink crouched in one corner; burnt orange curtains slumped over a narrow window, filtering what little light dared to enter. A single bed lurked opposite. I let out a dry chuckle. Home, sweet home.

In the quiet, I methodically folded clothes into the narrow cupboard, its plywood frame bowing slightly under memory. Every crease smoothed was part of my eighteen years, each item a chapter from a life shaped by careful attention and riddled with questions. Leaving home should have felt harder than this, but instead, it felt disturbingly natural. Even as my mum cried at the door, wringing her hands like she was sending me off to war, I’d felt strangely hollow.

My adoptive parents had been more than guardians. They were architects of their vision of my perfect future. Their guidance, though rooted in love, yanked me away from who I might’ve been. In the world they built around me—polished, careful, safe—I started to disappear. My reflection blurred, until the person in the mirror looked more like a patchwork of their hopes than anyone I recognised. Their arms always felt like shelter, but eventually, even comfort started to feel like a cage. I wasn’t learning how to be brave, or rebellious, or even angry—just how to be what they needed. And always, gently, they kept me from the edge of anything that might’ve shown me who I really was. I grew up in the margins—too careful to fit in with my peers, too restless to fit perfectly into their plans—always floating, never landing.

In the schoolyard, where kids can sniff out otherness like blood in the water, I caught my first glimpse of who I might become. Being an outsider wasn’t one big moment. It was a thousand tiny ones: a joke that didn’t land, a glance that lingered too long, a whisper I wasn’t meant to hear. Each one carved something into me. Not deep enough to bleed, but deep enough to last. They weren’t dramatic wounds. Just quiet, constant erosion. And over time, it wore away whatever certainty I had about myself.

Every time I felt the need to hide—every time I did—I felt something crack a little wider. Trying to seem normal only made it worse. After a while, I couldn’t tell if I was hiding from other people or hiding from myself. Fitting in turned into a kind of performance. Every smile, every word, measured—just enough to blend in, never enough to be seen. Even after all the layers of thick skin I’d built, all it took was one well-placed comment to hit home, to peel everything back and remind me how raw those places still were. The ones I thought had scarred over. The ones I told myself didn’t hurt anymore.

The mirror showed me a young man caught between two worlds: one shaped by others’ expectations, the other still taking shape—quietly, stubbornly—somewhere deeper inside. My chestnut curls and olive-toned skin told a story I could barely understand, while my eyes—dark as rain-soaked earth—always made strangers ask where I was really from. The silver cedar tree pendant resting against my chest was the only tangible link I had to a past I was still piecing together. Sometimes, without thinking, I’d find my fingers tracing it, as if it might suddenly warm in my hand and whisper its secrets.

I told my parents I was heading to Scotland early to settle in, a gentle lie to spare their feelings. Instead, I went to my birthplace—Lebanon. Walking through Beirut stirred something unexpected in me: a dizzying blend of belonging and displacement. The city pulsed with life—music, traffic, strangers brushing past—at once embracing and overwhelming. I searched its ancient streets and crowded markets, each corner promising another piece of my story. Jasmine on the breeze, street vendors calling to passersby—it felt briefly like home. A home that was mine, and somehow not mine. Men who looked like me passed by, and I couldn’t stop searching their faces—hoping, absurdly, for something to click. Some spark of recognition. But each promising lead to my biological parents dissolved into another dead end, leaving me with more questions than answers.

The hospital where I was born stood unchanged from the photographs my parents used to show me. Images I’d memorised without meaning to. An imposing, unyielding monument to countless beginnings, mine among them. I searched the faces around me for any trace of my birth parents. A flicker of recognition. Anything. But all I got were sympathetic shrugs and kind faces offering no answers. Just the kind of empty comfort that makes a person feel more lost.

Yet the people of Beirut offered something I hadn’t expected: a quiet, almost instinctive sense of belonging—one I hadn’t dared let myself imagine. In a crowded café, an old man shared his story of loss and discovery over thick, aromatic coffee. His weathered hands trembled as he spoke in broken English, his voice heavy with memory. His words, steeped in the city’s past, settled something in me—something I hadn’t realised had been restless for years.

Later that day, a woman caught sight of the cedar pendant at my chest. She smiled in quiet recognition, her eyes full of understanding, even as she shook her head at my questions. Beirut held me in its vibrant, unpredictable rhythm. Its people offered warmth and recognition, even as the answers I was searching for slipped further out of reach—lost, maybe, along the sun-bleached shores I kept returning to in my mind.

“Who are you, Felix?” The question haunted me, echoing in the space where certainty should have lived. As these thoughts circled, a knock at the door jolted me back to my room. I froze. Who could be looking for me here? The knock came again—louder this time.

“Come in,” I called out, aiming for confidence, wincing at the tremor in my voice. The door creaked open, flooding the dimness with harsh fluorescent light. Silhouettes emerged. Phantoms stepping out of the glare.

“Hey, new guy! Took you long enough. We’ve been waiting for you,” Jess called out, her voice carrying a playful ease. Sweet Jess. She leaned in the doorway, the fluorescent light haloing her silhouette. Her indigo Goldfrapp T-shirt pulled slightly at the sleeves, revealing a constellation of faded flower tattoos snaking down her arms. Each petal looked like it had its own story to tell. Her jet-black hair fell in waves around her shoulders, framing a face dusted with freckles across nearly translucent skin. She wore grey-blue jeans—frayed at the hems from countless adventures—and well-worn DC skater shoes. Jess radiated an effortless cool that seemed almost surreal in these stripped-back surroundings.

Had I known how little time she had left, maybe I wouldn’t have wasted so much of it being petty.

Beside her stood Blonde Sarah—a true Geordie—balanced reserve with quiet rebellion. Her ash-blonde hair was tied back loosely, and her slightly overlapping front teeth gave her a mousy charm—an unassuming softness that let her vanish into the background. I’d come to realise it was no accident. It was a skill. Sarah’s sharp eyes missed nothing, always watching, always calculating. At first glance, she seemed subdued. Almost invisible. But beneath the careful exterior lay depths most would miss.

Then came Brunette Sarah—‘Muddy Sarah,’ as we called her, to avoid confusion with her sun-haired counterpart. Her auburn locks tumbled in wild waves, as if she’d just returned from some windswept expedition. A floral blouse and denim skirt couldn’t contain her untamed spirit; her eyes sparked with endless curiosity, drinking in every detail. A knowing smile tugged at her lips, like she’d seen things others wouldn’t believe. She carried the subtle perfume of earth and pine, as if nature itself had claimed her as its own.

Julian stood beside her—tall, lanky, and the thinker of our group. He scrutinised me through wire-framed glasses, eyes narrowed into thoughtful crescents, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. His face held the soft etchings of constant contemplation. A mind forever elsewhere. Julian’s peculiar blend of French nonchalance and British charm suggested a soul quietly wrestling with bigger questions. His long, black leather coat hung loosely over stooped shoulders, while his patchy beard lent a rugged edge to his otherwise carefully maintained appearance. His pale complexion spoke of hours spent in libraries rather than sunlight.

And then there was Colin. A boyishly handsome rugby player from some quiet coastal Scottish village. Tousled hair the colour of sunlit wheat framed a clean-shaven face, his sky-blue eyes sharpened by a disarmingly bright smile. “A’right, mate?” he greeted, his voice warm and somehow familiar. Colin carried himself with an effortless confidence—that rare mix of strength and gentleness that drew people like moths to flame. Stone-washed jeans clung to strong legs; a crimson T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and a solid frame. As he leaned casually against the door frame, a wave of comfort washed over me—warm, familiar, disarming. My heart stuttered. A spark flared low in my chest.

Hello, Golden Boy.