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“It disrespects me.”
She bites back a laugh as she turns the screen toward me, her fingers brushing my wrist in the process. That one, small contact feels like pressure beneath the skin. Familiar. Dangerous. I don’t flinch.
“Read it,” she says, voice honeyed with amusement.
The screen glows with two names. The first is from someone called “Waffles4LIFE.” The second, equally offensive, is “BigMeatEnergy.”
I blink.
Luna chokes on a laugh.
“What…what the fuck does that mean?”
“Silas and Elias,” she says, too casually, like it makes perfect sense that these imbeciles are using aliases fit for a toddler hopped up on sugar and existential dread.
“They named themselves after breakfast food and meat?”
Luna’s shoulder shakes with silent laughter. “You’re in the group chat now.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t consent.”
“You didn’t read the terms and conditions.”
“What are the terms and conditions?”
“Don’t block them. Don’t delete them. Respond with emojis when they get clingy.”
The phone chimes again. Another message appears underWaffles4LIFE:“Bro. What r u wearing. Luna said u were trying to take pics. Is it happening? Is the fit sexy? Show me shoulder.”
I blink again, slower this time. “What does that even—”
Another ding.
BigMeatEnergy:“Ambrose, I know u don’t want to talk but I just want you to know ur hair looked hot today. Like villain-in-a-gothic-horror-novel hot. Don’t let anyone dull ur murder sparkle.”
I make a sound. It might be pain. It might be despair.
Luna wheezes beside me, tears building at the corners of her eyes. “You should see what they send to Riven.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Delete me.”
“You can’t escape them. Ever.”
I stare at the phone. Then at her.
And then—because there’s no dignity left in this moment—I sigh, lean back against the stone wall, and mutter, “Fine. Show me how to send a…meme.”
Her face lights up like I just offered her the world. Maybe I did. Maybe this is what surrender looks like. Not battles lost, or kingdoms burned—but letting her sit closer. Letting her take my hand, and guide me through madness.
The screen is too damn small. My fingers are too large—or perhaps too precise—to function within the confines of thisridiculous contraption. I type slowly, deliberately, correcting myself every third word because the keyboard has a mind of its own, rearranging my insults like it thinks it knows better.