It's late. The kind of late where the world goes quiet except for the glow of screens and the distant sound of keyboard clicks. I'd promised him mochi after his stream—his favorite, the red bean kind from the convenience store two blocks down.

My phone buzzes against my shoulder as I balance it, keys still in one hand.

A wall of purple and blue LEDs hits me first. Then the monitor.

Thousands of messages. Thousands of usernames. All frozen mid-spam as the webcam catches me in full frame.

Choso's wearing his headset crooked, dark hair falling over one eye, expression caught somewhere between deer-in-headlights and I've-been-caught.

He looks at me. I look at him. Then I look at the chat.

They're painting you all over a state. The words blur together—"HOODIE", "GIRLFRIEND", "LIVE TOGETHER", "CLIP THAT" flying past faster than I can process.

The grocery bag slips.

Crash. Mochi rolls across the floor.