Chapter 1: The Price of Excess
Elliot Moriarty had always been untouchable. As the only son of Jonathan Moriarty, a billionaire tycoon, his life was a whirlwind of opulence, luxury, and indulgence. He spent his days lounging in his lavish penthouse, waited on by a team of servants who catered to his every whim. His once-fit frame had ballooned to a staggering 140 kilograms, a direct result of years of gluttony and excess. His father, absorbed in expanding their empire, ignored Elliot's downward spiral, compensating with money instead of affection.
Everything changed the night Elliot was kidnapped.
It was supposed to be another routine evening. His chauffeur was driving him home from yet another exclusive party when the car was ambushed. Masked men dragged him from the leather interior, gagging his screams with force. He could barely move, let alone fight back. His bulk made it impossible. His captors didn't care for his status or weight; they were there to send a message.
Elliot awoke in a dingy, windowless room. The air was thick with the smell of mildew and rot. He was stripped down to his boxers, tied to a wooden chair, too small for his bloated frame, the ropes digging painfully into his flesh. The floor was dirt, the walls concrete. He tried to scream, but his voice cracked in the stale air. No one came. He had never felt so powerless.
The kidnappers began their torment slowly at first. For days, they fed him barely anything—a plate of scraps here and there. He begged for food, his stomach screaming in hunger, but they only taunted him, calling him a "bloated pig" and reminding him of how he had spent years stuffing his face with luxury. They turned his body into a mockery of itself, showing him mirrors and laughing as his hands trembled from starvation.
The psychological torture was worse. They played recordings of his life of excess—parties, interviews, clips of him gloating about his wealth—all of it spliced with footage of starving children, ruined families, and people destroyed by his father's business empire. Elliot saw the vast chasm between his privilege and the suffering outside his bubble. It gnawed at his mind, breaking him down. They whispered to him in the dark, telling him he was nothing more than a gluttonous waste of space, unworthy of the life he lived.
He tried to rationalize it—he wasn't his father, wasn't responsible for their pain. But in his weakened state, every whisper seemed true. For the first time in his life, he felt shame.
Weeks passed, and his body withered. His weight dropped rapidly, the fat melting away under forced starvation and sporadic, brutal beatings. Every day, they made him walk, despite the agony in his joints and the weakness that had taken hold. He collapsed more often than not, only to be dragged back to his feet by rough hands, bruises spreading across his pale skin like a second layer. He could no longer recognize his body, the mass he had once been so comfortable in.
Months later, they finally released him, dumping him on the outskirts of the city like discarded trash. He was barely recognizable. His clothes hung off his gaunt frame, his once-cherubic face now gaunt and hollow. His eyes, once filled with arrogance and entitlement, were now empty, haunted by months of torment.
Elliot returned to his father's mansion, but the world seemed alien to him. He no longer fit in his own home. His father, disturbed by his appearance, arranged for the best doctors and therapists, but none of them could repair the damage done to his mind. His luxurious bed felt suffocating, the food prepared by gourmet chefs tasted like ash in his mouth, and the servants who once pampered him now made him feel nauseated with their obsequiousness.
The transformation was not just physical. Elliot was no longer the spoiled, pampered heir. His life of indulgence felt like a distant memory, and now, it only filled him with disgust. He spent his days in silence, reflecting on the lessons burned into his mind during his captivity. He no longer craved luxury or attention—he craved isolation, peace, a way to escape the hollowness that now consumed him.
One night, Elliot found himself back in front of the massive mirror in his room. The image that stared back was unrecognizable—a man who had been broken, reshaped by pain and hunger. He had lost over 60 kilograms, his body now lean, scarred, and frail. His hair had grown wild, and his once-glowing skin had become sallow and stretched.
There was no joy in his transformation. He didn't see a success story, no redemption arc. Only a hollow shell of the boy who had once been so full of himself, now devoid of any sense of identity.
His father tried to pull him back into the life he once lived, but Elliot refused. He left the mansion in the dead of night, carrying nothing but a single duffel bag. He wandered the streets, finally experiencing the world he had been shielded from his whole life. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew one thing for certain—he could never return to the life he once had.
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