Silence settles between us. Then Julian nods once.
“Ok,” he says. “Then we do it right.”
Zane is already pulling equipment out of the bag. “Lighting’s trash in here. Sit. Don’t move.”
“I’m not…”
“Leo,” Zane says, meeting my eyes. “Trust me.”
I sit.
Julian adjusts a lamp, angling it softer, lower. “No filters,” he mutters. “You don’t get to look better than you feel.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I say.
Zane checks sound levels. “Mics clean. The camera’s steady. Chat’s going to be brutal.”
“I know.”
Julian crouches in front of me. “One thing,” he says quietly. “This doesn’t mean she forgives you.”
“I know,” I say. My throat tightens. “I’m not asking for that.”
“Good,” he says. “Then go.”
He steps back. Zane gives me a small nod from behind the camera.
Julian opens the livestream app.
The one that started this whole disaster.
The dare.
The joke.
The stupid, careless beginning of something that became real when I wasn’t paying attention.
I don’t clean up.
I don’t shower.
I don’t change.
I want them to see me exactly as I am.
I go live.
My face fills the screen, pale, grey, wrecked. My eyes look hollowed out, red-rimmed, and exhausted. Julian’s reflection flickers faintly in the glass behind the camera, arms crossed. Zane watches the chat on his tablet, jaw tight.
The viewers flood in.
1k.
5k.
20k.
The chat is chaos.
