@BassSlut4Cal:Alfie sounds wrecked. Like, properly wrecked. Who is she? Who fixed the Showbox??
@Omegamon:Wait, "fox-tail"? There was a rumour about a fox avatar producer on the stream... is this Z? Did Z fix their rig?
And then, inevitably, the war started.
@AlphaKingStan:OMG listen to the lyrics. "I won't chase / I won't take." He's scent-matched. He has to be. #BlackberryBond
@TechNerd88:Stop shipping real people you freaks. Look at the liner notes. "We want to learn, not take." That's the story. She ran because the industry eats Omegas. He's saying she's safe. #FoxTailProducer
@GossipHound:Bet they already hooked up and she bailed. Drama.
@PunkQueen:Shut up. Alfie Riot literally just dropped a consent anthem disguised as a ballad. Credit her. Respect her. #FoxTailRespect
"It's a mess," I said, watching the hashtags battle for supremacy in the trending tab. #BlackberryBond was climbing fast, fueled by the romantics who wanted a fairy tale. But #FoxTailProducer was right behind it, fueled by the tech nerds and the punks who understood what I was actually saying.
"It's a conversation," Rowan corrected. She tapped a tweet from a major music blog asking who the mystery engineer was."You've weaponized the speculation. Instead of 'Alfie's sad,' it's 'Who is this genius who saved the show?'"
"I don't want them to find her," I said, panic flaring again. "If they doxx her?—"
"They won't," Euan said, appearing behind Rowan. He looked grim but satisfied. "I'm monitoring traffic. Anyone trying to dig into real IDs gets redirected to a dead-end server I set up ten minutes ago. They can speculate all they want. They won't find a name."
Kit squeezed into the small room, looming large. "Cal's doing something clever."
"Oh god," I groaned. "More tea?"
"No. Look." Kit turned his phone around.
Cal had posted to the official Riot Theory Instagram. Not a glossy promo shot. Just a grainy, moody Polaroid of a backstage door.
Taped to the door was a piece of gaffer tape with sharpie writing: SAFETY CHECK ZONE. QUIET PLEASE.
@RiotCal:Backstage isn't for afterparties tonight. It's for boundaries. Respect the quiet zones. Also, the new track is strictly for listening, not for hunting. Anyone requesting personal info on our collaborators gets blocked. Cheers.#BoundariesArePunk
I stared at the screen. Cal, the quiet one. Cal, who usually only posted pictures of bass strings and biscuits. He’d taken my raw, emotional vomit and turned it into policy.
"He's steering the ship," Kit murmured, a hint of admiration in his voice. "Look at the comments on Cal's post."
@Fan1:Safe zones backstage? Finally.
@TourRat:Love this. Shipping is fun but real people need space. Good on you lads.
@RiotTheoryFan:Okay so we respect the engineer's privacy. Copy that.
"Copy that," I whispered, the phrase tasting sweet for the first time in hours.
Rowan finally stood up. She smoothed her skirt, her face settling into that lethal, professional mask she wore to negotiate aggressive hostile takeovers. But there was a glint in her eye. A terrifying, approving glint.
"Congratulations, Alfred," she said, using my legal name which usually meant I was in deep shit. This time, it sounded different. "You’ve managed to turn a potential PR crisis into an ethical branding pivot."
"I didn't do it for the brand," I snapped, defensive reflex kicking in. "I did it for her."
She paused at the door, glancing back at me huddled on the floor in my vintage tee and despair. "I know. That's why it worked. You've made consent sound romantic."
She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Though I will be drafting a clause for the next contract that forbids unauthorized uploads of emotional misery without managerial review."
"It's not misery," I said, standing up and brushing the dust off my jeans. The vibrating in my blood had stopped, replaced by a low, steady thrum. I hadn't chased. I hadn't hunted. I had sent up a flare that saidI am here, and I am safe. "It's policy."
"It's punk," Rowan conceded, a tiny smile cracking her facade.
