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I should’ve turned off notifications. Rookie move.

But I’m three hours post-panel, sprawled on the hotel bed still half-buttoned, half-buzzed, phone in hand like it’s a crystal ball. And baby, the algorithm is drunk and in love.

First headline I see:

Battle of the Sexperts: Adrian Zayne vs The Zeta Slayer

— BuzzBattle Official

Cute.

Then Reddit gets involved, because of course it does. r/TheRedPill is hosting a livestream replay watch party titled “Is She Into Him or Just Dominating the Frame?”

A guy named CryptoCoachAlpha93 has a spreadsheet. A literal spreadsheet.

He’s timestamped every micro gesture from the panel—eye contact, lip curls, eyebrow arches—with the enthusiasm of a forensic linguist decoding the Zodiac letters.

“At 13:07, Adrian crosses his right ankle over his left = Alpha comfort signal.”

“13:09, Emily touches her hair = classic preening. High likelihood of subconscious attraction.”

“13:11, Adrian mirrors her lean-in = escalation accepted.”

Another comment pops up:

“Emily is either seething with hate or dangerously into him. There is no third option.”

Then someone called BetaBackBreaker chimes in:

“She’s neg-hitting him like a PUA in disguise. It’s textbook reverse game. ”

Reverse game. That's a new one.

A video clip titled When Your Nemesis Roasts You But You’re Kinda Into It has gone viral on TikTok.

Soundtrack: Taylor Swift’s “...Ready for It?”

Visuals: me smirking while Emily Parrish tears into my soul like she’s slicing birthday cake and I’m the frosting.

There are thirst edits.

Thirst. Edits.

One zooms dramatically into her biting her lip after I say “So... not me, then?” Another slows down my grin at 0.5x speed like I’m auditioning to be the cover model for Toxic & Tempting Monthly .

An Instagram influencer named @FeministButThirsty posts a photo of me and Emily with a comment:

“I hate him. I really, really hate him. Also, would 100% let him ruin my life.”

Pinned. 87k likes.

In the comments, someone replies:

“She looked like she wanted to punch him. Or kiss him. Possibly both.”

And then, the crown jewel of this clown parade:

A betting pool.

Run entirely through a Discord server called “Ship or Shred.”

Yes. People are betting real money on whether Emily and I will have sex before the year ends. Odds are currently 3:1 in favor of a hate-fueled hookup.

Some guy named “FrameLord77” is taking this so seriously he’s doing YouTube breakdowns with freeze-frames and laser pointers .

“Now, here at minute 17, Emily unconsciously mirrors Adrian’s posture. That’s a limbic resonance signal. They’re neurologically syncing.”

I laugh so hard I drop the phone on my face.

Jesus. This is insane.

But it’s also... perfect.

I sit up in bed, still grinning like a man who just realized his worst enemy is now his best marketing funnel.

Because here’s the thing: you can’t buy this kind of buzz. This is the stuff PR people pray for and then invoice you twenty grand to pretend they created.

This isn’t just drama.

It’s a narrative.

It’s enemies-to-lovers fanfic with a real-time comment section and split-screen sexual tension. It’s hate-watching with a side of “but what if?”

And whether they love me or hate me, they’re watching. They’re clipping. They’re sharing.

Even the feminists are boosting engagement—debunking, dissecting, sometimes thirsting in between paragraphs of deconstruction.

Tyler texts me.

TYLER:

Trending on Twitter.

“Zeta x Slayer” is the new ship name.

You’re welcome.

ME:

Do we trademark it or lean in?

TYLER:

Lean in .

Hard.

I’ve bet on you!

I toss the phone onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, brain buzzing louder than the ring light I forgot to pack.

The way I see it, I’ve got two options: play defense or offense. And you know what I always choose.

I flip to Tyler’s thread.

ME:

What if we pitched her something? Real collab. Podcast or series. Battle of the sexes but smart.

TYLER:

Risky.

Also baller.

Also horny-coded.

ME:

Horny-coded is the key.

I’m not even sure this is a real plan. It’s more like... momentum. A vibe.

The internet wants a show? Fine. Let’s give them one.

Let them ship us, clip us, overanalyze every glance.

Lean in. Smile for the camera. Let it look like a fling.

Emily won’t love it. But if I play it right, she’ll respond.

And then we’re in business.

Because hate is attention.

And attention?

Is the game.

Game I practically invented.

I smirk, fingers already flying over the keyboard.

Let the next round begin.