My phone is vibrating off the nightstand. Actually no, that’s a lie. My phone is vibrating so aggressively it’s practically tap dancing across the wood. The sound is less “gentle alarm” and more “distressed hornet trapped in a blender.”

I check the time. 6:47 AM.

The sun hasn’t even had its coffee yet.

I unlock the phone and immediately regret every decision I have ever made that led to this exact moment. Because there, glowing against my screen like a crime scene photo entered as evidence, is a headline.

“Starlet Y/N Leaked: The Nudes Everyone’s Talking About.”

I blink.

I blink again.

The headline does not disappear.

Below it, a series of notification previews from various gossip accounts, news outlets, and what I can only describe as the entire population of the internet.

My thumb scrolls down on autopilot.

And down.

And down.

It’s a lot.

The notifications keep coming. Twitter is trending. Instagram is exploding. There’s a TikTok sound already.

A SOUND.

It has been less than six hours.

My phone buzzes again. And again. And again. The notifications have formed a conga line across my lock screen that spans multiple generations of human achievement.

And right at the top of my messages, highlighted like a neon sign pointing at a dumpster fire, is Finn Wolfhard.

Below Finn’s panic spiral, a few more names flicker across the screen.

Something about it doesn’t sit right.

Something about it sits very wrong, actually. Like finding a single clean fork in an otherwise abandoned sink. Technically acceptable. But suspicious.

The phone buzzes again.