The girls, buzzing with a chaotic energy that was equal parts excitement and nerves, scattered across the expansive digital stage. Millie was already poking at a newly materialized control panel that hovered near her usual streaming spot, her fingers tracing glowing buttons that emitted soft, satisfying clicks and beeps.

  Amora was testing the acoustics by the stage's edge, letting out a loud "HELLOOOOO!" that echoed beautifully into the seemingly infinite virtual auditorium. Emily was examining the lighting rigs, her streamer's instincts taking over.

  Their distraction left me alone with the smiling businessman. Mr. King stood there, a monument to corporate artifice amidst the budding chaos. He took a step closer, his avatar moving with that same unnerving precision.

  "It truly is a pleasure to finally have a moment to speak with someone from Meteor Studio," he began, the moduted voice oozing practiced charm.

  "The impact of your work... Silent Hill: First Fear... it's all anyone can talk about… You've quite literally reshaped the conversation around immersive horror. The narrative depth, the audio design... a mastercss."

  I gave a noncommittal shrug; my hands tucked into the pockets of my avatar's jeans. "Thanks…. We had a story we wanted to tell."

  "And you told it magnificently. The industry hasn't seen an independent debut with this much cultural penetration in decades. It's the talk of every boardroom from here to New Japan."

  I let him talk, watching the smile that never reached the eyes. I decided to cut the shit.

  "I'm sure it is, thank you for the compliment," I said, my tone shifting from casual to something ftter, more direct. I met the avatar's dead gaze. "It's also the talk of the MeTube C-suite, I imagine…. Pleasure to meet you, by the way, Mrs. Maddy King. How's the view from the top floor?"

  The effect was instantaneous.

  The polished, corporate smile vanished. It didn't fade; it was just gone, wiped away like a faulty texture. The avatar's posture, once rigidly confident, seemed to slump slightly. There was a flicker—a literal glitch in the visual field around the figure—and then the form dissolved and reconstituted itself.

  The generic businessman was repced by a woman. She was sharp, intelligent-looking, with dark brunette hair pulled into a severe bun. Her avatar now wore a sleek, modern business suit, tailored and undoubtedly expensive. She looked real, and she looked utterly stunned.

  "...How?" was all she managed to get out, her real voice—a crisp, alto sound ced with shock—repcing the modutor.

  "You should apologize for the deception, because, it was kinda annoying, you know…" I said, not as a question, but as a gentle prompt. I wasn't angry. Yet. I was... curious.

  Maddy King, CMO of MeTuber, had the decency to look mortified. "I... I do apologize…. Profusely. This is highly unprofessional." She took a breath, composing herself.

  "The pressure... you have no idea. Since your announcement, my direct line has been ringing off the hook. It's not just game companies. It's studios, talent agencies, A-list celebrities, venture capital firms... they can't get to you, so they're calling us. Demanding access. Demanding an introduction. My CEO is breathing down my neck. This was... a desperate attempt to establish a direct line."

  As she spoke, Sunday was already cross-referencing everything in my mind. "[Accessing MeTube’s Terms of Service. Section 4, Cuse 15: 'Ptform representatives shall not misrepresent their identity or purpose to gain access to user-generated events without explicit, prior consent.' Section 3, Cuse 7: 'MeTuber shall remain an impartial ptform and shall not act as a broker or intermediary for third parties seeking contact with its content creators without said creator's request.']"

  The information settled in my mind, cool and clear.

  "You're also in viotion of your own ptform's Terms of Service," I said, my voice still calm, but now with an edge of steel. "Sections 4.15 and 3.7, if I'm not mistaken. Impersonation. Breach of impartiality. This isn't just unprofessional, Mrs. King. It's a fireable offense…. That is kinda serious,".

  Her digital avatar actually took a half-step back. The color drained from its face. "You... you've memorized our TOS?"

  "I have a good memory for rules people try to break," I replied ftly.

  "And the first thing you offered when caught was 'compensation.' To me. You tried to bribe me to look the other way."

  "I... It wasn't a bribe, it was a... a courtesy for the inconvenience..." she stammered, her professional composure crumbling.

  "The inconvenience?" I let out a short, humorless ugh.

  "The person you've truly inconvenienced is Millie…. She's the one whose private stream you crashed. She's the one whose trust you exploited…. She's the one now on the hook, her name and face attached to this circus, while I get to remain a ghost. If you're offering compensation, you offer it to her. You make sure her channel is promoted, algorithmically favored, and protected from any blowback from the vultures you let off the leash."

  I took a step forward. My avatar might have been a casual construct, but the intent behind it was solid. "MeTuber is supposed to be a ptform. A stage. Not a participant…. Not a talent agency, Be impartial. Obey your own rules. And for fuck's sake, don't be so sneaky about it next time…. It's annoying."

  The silence that followed was thick enough to chew on. Maddy King just stared at me, her expression a mixture of shock, fear, and a dawning, profound respect. She’d expected a reclusive artist, maybe a nervous kid. She hadn't expected to be legally and strategically dismantled in her own virtual venue.

  "I... understand," she finally said, her voice quiet but firm.

  "The compensation will be directed to Miss Kyleish's channel immediately…. And you have my word; this kind of overreach will not happen again. On behalf of MeTuber, I apologize."

  “We cool, kinda get it… you’re working for someone, at the end of the day, it was your boss, that is a dick… my annoyance is to them not you…which I am sure that would hear my talk with you… so let’ them have it okay,”. I chuckled; she is just the messenger.

  She gave a short, sharp nod, and her avatar flickered out of existence without another word. Poof.

  I let out a long breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. The grand, empty concert hall felt suddenly less impressive and more... cynical.

  ‘Well, that was fucking shitty,’ I thought, the irritation finally surfacing now that I was alone. ‘They folded like a cheap suit at the first sign of pressure…. Almost had my identity served up on a silver ptter to every corporate fucker with a checkbook.’

  But the anger was quickly overshadowed by a cold, calcuting certainty. ‘Luckily, from day one, I’d built a fucking fortress. Sunday is the lock, and there isn't a key on this pnet that can pick it.’

  This whole mess just proved it. Relying on other people's ptforms, no matter how big, was a weakness. A vulnerability.

  ‘Sunday,’ I thought, the idea crystallizing instantly. ‘We definitely need our own site…. A standalone, secure, multi-purpose page for Meteor Studio…. No middlemen. No terms of service to viote… A pce we control completely.’

  "[A prudent course of action,]" Sunday responded, her tone approving. "[I have already begun drafting architectural pns and security protocols. Given the... unhinged... nature of commercial interests in this world, a sovereign digital territory is a logical next step.]"

  I looked out at the thousands of empty seats, soon to be filled with avatars hungry for a piece of the mystery. They could have the show. But the source code? The man behind the curtain? That was staying right the fuck where it belonged. Under lock and key. Ours.