For a while, we just lie there. I close my eyes and pretend we’re the only pack that matters.
But nothing gold can stay.
Wyatt’s phone buzzes once, then again, then goes full vibrating rattle on the floorboards. He doesn’t move at first, but when the buzzing becomes impossible to ignore, he groans and gropes around for it, squinting at the screen.
“It’s just notifications,” he says, tossing the phone toward the pile of dirty laundry without locking the screen again. It bounces and lands face-up on the rug, still alight and shuddering every few seconds.
But then it goes off again, and again, and again.
After the sixth or seventh burst, I get up to check it, mostly to shut it the hell up before Bastion murders us all. I pick up the phone. The lock screen is a blizzard of pop-ups—comments,likes, and other pings. It’s the digital equivalent of a mob outside our front door. I expect it to be group chats or maybe my art account. But the icon on every single notification is a cartoon wolf I’d recognize anywhere:Royals Anonymous.
I freeze.
Wyatt’s phone is still unlocked.Heck of a lockout timer.I open it with one thumb swipe and the app opens, flooding the screen with a list of new posts, some already in the hundreds of upvotes. Some flagged while others are marked with a gold star for trending. The first is a meme of Ranier in a suit with the caption “Beta Energy, Alpha Salary.” The next is a blurry photo of Bastion, his expression so sullen it looks like it was drawn in MS Paint. Below that, a screen grab from last night’s debut, with me front and center. The caption: “Blue omega takes center stage. Is the Everhart pack doomed?”
My stomach drops. There’s a part of me that wants to close the app, but I can’t. I click on the notification queue. There’s a little red flag on the admin dashboard. Wyatt is logged in, but not as a lurker. As a moderator. No—an owner.
I feel the world tip sideways. Every bright bubble of joy from last night pops in reverse. I scroll. There are drafts half-written about every pack in the city, but most of them are aboutus. Aboutme. There’s a queue for user-submitted posts with comments attached.“What even is her deal?” “She looks like an off-brand anime character.” “Why would they claim someone like her? Is it a fetish?” “Prediction: she’s gone in a month.”
And then, right at the top, a new draft. I click it before I can stop myself.
Title:“OmegaFail: Why The Everhart Experiment is Already Dead”
Body:Saw the "commoner" omega at the Council debut today. Blue hair like a gas station slushie and a dress from the children's department. Everhart's new pet talks like she'sauditioning for a comedy special nobody would watch. If this pack is desperate enough to claim street trash with no bloodline or breeding, they deserve extinction. #OmegaFail #TrashPack
It’s not posted yet. But it’s there, written in a voice that could almost be Wyatt’s, sharp and clever and hiding the blade until it cuts.
My hands shake. I want to believe it’s a joke or a prank. Maybe even a trap for trolls. But the voice in my head says:You always knew. You knew, and you let yourself believe anyway.
I slam the phone down on my desk so hard it leaves a crack in the screen.
Bastion jerks awake and clutches his head. “The fuck?”
Wyatt blinks, not yet piecing it together. “You okay?”
I don’t answer. I grab the phone and throw it at him. It bounces off the blanket and lands at his feet.
Wyatt picks it up and sees the open draft. His mouth goes slack. “Emery?—”
“Is it true? You think I look like a gas station slushie?” I don’t even know if Iwantthe answer to that question.
Wyatt’s eyes go wide. “I—what? No, I?—”
“You run Royals Anonymous?” My voice is so shrill it bounces off the windows.
He stares, caught.
Bastion sits up and rubs his eyes. “What’s going on?”
I toss my hair out of my face. “Did you know? Did either of you fucking know?”
Bastion looks from me to Wyatt, then back again. “Know what?”
I jab a finger at Wyatt. “He owns Royals Anonymous. The troll blog that’s been roasting us since day one.”
Wyatt winces, but doesn’t deny it. “It’s just a stupid account. I started it as a joke, it’s not?—”
“It’s not real?” I cut in, laugh sharp as glass. “Because it looks pretty fucking real from here.”
