By the time the word "monster" starts trending with my name, my coffee’s gone cold.
The mug shakes just enough to send a crescent of lukewarm bitterness over my fingers. I set it down, slow, like the table might explode if I move too fast, and watch the numbers climb on my laptop.
1.2 million shares.
3.8 million views.
The headline: "Critic Rory Hale Calls National Treasure Cassian Ward A Soulless Mannequin."
Not my wording, of course. Mine had been sharper, cleaner, something about glacial eyes and a voice like pre-packaged sunlight—polished, empty, plastic. I know how to wield language like a knife. I don’t use blunt instruments.
But blunt is what the internet does best.
The notification sound from my phone is a continuous stutter—pings crashing into each other, a glitching percussion track. My mentions flicker by so fast I can’t catch more than fragments.
Bitch.
Ableist.
Die.
My stomach tightens. I tell myself it’s hunger, nothing more, even though the untouched half of a bagel sits to my left, fat with cream cheese and suddenly obscene.
Marco calls without texting first.
"You’re not watching, are you?" he says by way of hello, breathless, the audio tinny in my ear. "Please tell me you’re not on Twitter."
"Good morning to you too," I reply. My voice sounds the way I’ve built it to sound on camera: dry, unflinching, like I’m already bored. "And technically, I’m on X now. Keep up."
He groans. "Rory."
I click refresh on the trending page. Cassian Ward’s face blooms across my screen—paparazzi shots, concert stills, fan edits with glitter fonts screaming PROTECT HIM. Somewhere beneath the noise is my review, embedded, my words highlighted like evidence in a trial I didn’t realize I’d agreed to.
"What happened?" I ask. "Last I checked I called a very rich man’s album a glorified perfume commercial. That’s Tuesday."
Marco exhales, a rush that fuzzes the line. In the background I hear overlapping voices, the hum of an open-plan office, the particular tense buzz of media people smelling blood.
"He went live," Marco says. "Cassian. On Streamline’s channel. Ten minutes ago."
I straighten without meaning to. Across the room, the cheap blinds over my only window throw broken bars of New York winter light against my bookshelf.
"And?" I prod.
Marco hesitates. He never hesitates.
"And he said he’s losing his hearing."
The words hit me like I’ve stepped off a curb that wasn’t there. My brain, ever practical, tries to slot them into the story architecture: pop prince, tragic secret, brave confession, fans rallying. My fingers, meanwhile, have gone numb on the keyboard.
"No," I say automatically. The word feels pathetic. "No, that’s—he can’t be."
"He is." Marco’s voice softens, the way it does when he knows I’m pretending not to feel something. "He said he’s been trying to keep it off the radar because of insurance and the tour, and that’s why some performances have been…"
"Off," I finish hoarsely.
Off.
Soulless.
Mannequin.
I see phrases from my review in my mind, crisp black against the white of my site: mechanically perfect, spiritually vacant. Like watching a hologram lip-sync someone else’s feelings.
Christ.
I stand too fast, my chair sliding back and catching on the rug. The room tilts. For a second all I can hear is my own pulse pounding in my ears, a rush like subway wind.
