When did the "I need sympathy" kid cross the line?

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There was this guy in our college who turned every minor inconvenience into a personal tragedy. Failed a quiz? Family crisis. Missed a deadline? Sudden illness. If someone else got recognition, he'd mysteriously develop some condition that required immediate attention. We called him Victim Vincent behind his back.

It started freshman year. A mysterious stomach bug during midterms. A sudden anxiety attack right before his presentation. His grandmother died three times in different semesters—always conveniently during finals week.

Most professors fell for it. Students just learned to expect the drama and moved on with their lives.

Vincent had perfected the art. He'd show up to class looking disheveled, mention his "situation" just loud enough for everyone to hear, then sit in the back looking defeated. Teachers would approach him after class, offering extensions and extra credit opportunities.

He collected sympathy like trophies. Late assignments became "I'm dealing with family issues." Poor grades became "I'm struggling with my mental health right now." Every setback had a sob story attached.

The breaking point came during our senior capstone presentations.

These presentations determined our final grades and were attended by industry professionals who could offer job opportunities. Vincent was scheduled to present his marketing campaign for a local nonprofit.

The morning of presentations, Vincent sent a group text to our entire class. His apartment had flooded. His laptop was destroyed. All his work was gone. He was having a panic attack and couldn't present.

Our professor immediately offered to reschedule his presentation for the following week. Classmates started a GoFundMe for his "destroyed" equipment. Someone even offered to let him stay at their place.

Vincent posted Instagram stories from the "flood aftermath"—standing in ankle-deep water, looking devastated, holding his supposedly ruined laptop.

But here's where he messed up.

Sarah, his neighbor from the same apartment complex, was in our class. She lived directly above him.

During lunch break, she pulled out her phone and showed us her own Instagram story from that morning. She'd filmed the "flood" from her balcony.

It wasn't a flood.

Vincent had turned on his garden hose and flooded his own patio. The water was maybe two inches deep and didn't even reach his sliding door. His laptop was sitting safely on his kitchen counter, visible through the window.

Sarah had more footage. Vincent setting up the scene, taking multiple photos, even changing shirts between shots to look more distressed.

The video went viral in our class group chat within minutes.

When Vincent showed up the next week for his "rescheduled" presentation, the room was dead silent. Our professor had seen the footage. The industry professionals had heard the story.

He tried to present anyway, but his voice kept cracking. Not from emotion this time—from pure embarrassment.

His presentation was about building authentic brand trust.

The irony wasn't lost on anyone.

Vincent failed the capstone. The GoFundMe was refunded and deleted. The job offers he'd been counting on disappeared overnight.

He graduated, but barely. No one from our program connected with him on LinkedIn.

Last I heard, he was working retail and had deleted all his social media accounts.

No more flood posts.

No more victim stories.

Just silence.