My stomach clenches.
“How viral?” I ask.
He holds up his phone. Refreshes the page. The numbers jump again.
I don’t let my face change. On the inside, everything tightens and sharpens, instinct snapping to attention. I hadn’t accounted for this—hadn’t planned for the noise, the amplification, the way a few carefully chosen words could detonate like this.
All I wanted was to write. To lay the facts bare. To raise awareness and let the truth speak for itself. One more stepping stone to getting what I want.
Instead, my story is bleeding across every news channel Iturn to. Panel after panel dissecting it, speculating, circling. I may as well be a walking, talking advertisement—my face missing, but my voice plastered everywhere like a warning label on a milk carton.
“Do you have any idea how many calls I’ve taken today?” he squeals. Not exaggerating—he actually squeals. He’s really taking this to a whole new, deeply unhinged level.
“Other student papers. Two national blogs. Someone from a cable panel wants a comment. And—” He waves a hand toward the phones shrieking on every available surface. “They all want to know whoAnonymousis.”
Of course they do.
People don’t know what to do with the truth when it arrives on their doorstep. They can’t argue with it. They can’t dismiss it. So they go hunting—less for facts, more for the mouth it crawled out of.
I move closer to his desk, lowering my voice. “You didn’t tell anyone.”
Flo looks offended. “Of course not. I’m notstupid.”
Good answer, though not reassuring.
“I told them what we agreed on,” he continues. “That Anonymous doesn’t give interviews. That the work stands on its own.”
My pulse finally ticks up. “And?”
“And they hate it,” he says, delighted. “Which is exactly why it’s working.”
I exhale slowly, careful not to let it sound like relief. My hands curl at my sides, nails biting into my skin.
“They’re going to dig,” I say. “Harder than before.”
Flo nods, suddenly serious. “Let them.”
I look at him then. Really look. Past the enthusiasm, past the ego. There’s something sharp there. Ambition, yes—but also instinct.
“There’s more leverage in not knowing who you are. Mystery keeps them focused on the message instead of the messenger. The second they can put a face to it, they’ll lose interest. It’s all about perception, baby.”
I wince at the endearment, the word landing wrong. Then I swallow, my throat suddenly too tight.
Because I know he’s right. And because he doesn’t know how literal that danger is. But I know enough to know that Flo would protect my identity to the death. Because more than my editor, he’s my closest friend.
“They’ll call you a coward,” he adds. “They already are, you know.”
“I know. That’s fine,” I say.
It is. Cowardice implies fear of consequences. I’m not afraid of being hated. I’m afraid of beingseen.
Flo watches me for a beat, then smiles again, softer this time. “You did good work, Ro. Whatever Anonymous is trying to say—it landed where it was meant to.”
I nod once. Thanks feels unnecessary, because I’ve learnt that gratitude is a liability.
Another phone rings. Then another. Someone shouts my editor’s name from down the hall. The noise swells, restless and hungry.
I turn away from it. Viral doesn’t mean I’m safe. It just means people are finally paying attention.
