Chapter 1: The Bead Scheme

Right before my roommate met his Instagram-famous girlfriend, he decided his ticket to love was getting beads surgically implanted down there.

It was a Tuesday night in our tiny Philly apartment, the Eagles game muted on the TV, and Derek was pacing our faded linoleum kitchen. The air reeked of old Wawa hoagies and anxiety—his, mostly. The whole thing sounded like some wild locker room rumor you’d hear after too many Yuenglings. But Derek wasn’t joking. He’d been deep-diving sketchy clinics online, binge-watching influencer testimonials, even joining Discord servers full of guys swapping "enhancement hacks." I watched him, and all I saw was a guy banking on a miracle to win the lottery of love.

I did everything I could to talk him out of it, laying out the risks like a prosecutor making his case.

I cracked open a couple of half-warm PBRs, dragged him to the futon, and hit him with every horror story I could find—Reddit threads, men’s health articles, pictures that made me lose my appetite for a week. “Dude, this isn’t like getting your ears pierced at the mall. You could wind up in the ER, or worse.” My voice was calm, but my hands were tight around the can. It scared the hell out of me that he was willing to do this for a girl he barely knew. I even offered to take him to Pat’s for cheesesteaks—anything to get his mind off it.

He listened, then finally gave in, dropping the flyer like it burned him.

He slumped onto the futon, shoulders sagging. “You’re right, man,” he muttered, balling up the sketchy flyer. Relief washed over me. I thought maybe we’d finally dodged a bullet.

But then the rich girl dumped him and started dating a minor TikTok celebrity—who, of course, had actually gotten the bead implant.

Suddenly, her Instagram was full of stories—her and this new guy, a TikTok dude who bragged about his "upgrade" on every live stream. Derek tried to play it cool, but I caught him staring at his phone, flinching at every ping. It was like the air got sucked out of the room, and he just sat there, hollowed out.

The influencer shot up the social ladder, showing off his new status for the world to see.

That dude went viral overnight—pool parties in Beverly Hills, tagged in posts with reality TV stars, brunches at places that charged $30 for toast. He was living the life Derek dreamed about, and the jealousy was eating my roommate alive.

Derek texted me one night, saying he owed me a drink for always looking out for him. Philly guys don’t do feelings, so I didn’t think much of it—but his tone was off. Too grateful. Too upbeat.

He showed up with a plastic bag of beads, looking like he’d just robbed a Michaels.

He waltzed in wearing his only nice jacket, swinging a bag of shiny glass beads—the kind you’d use for crafts, not surgery. His eyes were wild, his smile too wide.

I never saw it coming—he drugged me and tied me to our kitchen table.

I barely registered the bitter taste in my drink before the world started spinning. When I came to, my wrists and ankles were duct-taped to the table, Christmas lights swimming in my vision. Panic hit me, hard—like something out of a true crime podcast.

Derek hovered over me, rage in his voice: “This is all your fault. If you hadn’t meddled, I’d be driving a Ferrari and living in a mansion.”

He spat the words like venom. The resentment in his face—after all I’d done—felt like a gut punch.

He took a razor blade, cut open my junk, and shoved the beads inside.

The next few minutes were nothing but agony and betrayal—a blur of blood, pain, and the buzz of our old fridge. The beads hit the floor, mixing with my broken sobs.

Everything went black. I died from the pain.

But when I opened my eyes, I was back at the start—on the day Derek first insisted on getting that surgery.