Chapter 3 3

The chat became a wall of text, dense and illegible, sixty thousand voices screaming into the same digital space. Most of them were here for the spectacle-the trending banner had pulled in rubberneckers from across the platform, disaster tourists hoping to watch a fat girl embarrass herself in real-time.

Isabelle read none of it.

Her attention was internal, focused on the data stream Nyx provided-Ambrose Collier's account status, location, activity. A.C. The initials glowed in her mind's eye, tagged with metadata. Online. Watching. Specifically, watching Carmen Dominguez's stream, where the blonde influencer was demonstrating lipstick shades with mechanical perfection.

"Lock his position," Isabelle subvocalized. "I want him seeing this."

"Confirmed. Target account A.C. is active in target stream Carmen_Dominguez. Raid challenge will generate cross-notification."

Isabelle smiled. The expression didn't reach Izzy's eyes-couldn't, not with the facial structure she had-but it lived in her voice, in the subtle relaxation of her throat muscles that changed her tone from pleasant to predatory.

She found Carmen's ID in the search box and clicked the challenge button. Force invite. No opt-out. The nuclear option of Twitch diplomacy.

Cordelia's text appeared in chat, all caps, uncharacteristically agitated. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? SHE HAS FIVE MILLION FOLLOWERS. THIS IS SUICIDE."

Isabelle leaned into the microphone. "Don't worry, Cordelia." She let the name stretch, become a caress. "I like challenging prey."

The invite flew through Twitch's servers, a digital arrow aimed at the heart of the platform's aristocracy. It would appear on Carmen's screen as a red interrupt, impossible to ignore, forcing immediate decision.

In her SoHo loft, surrounded by ring lights and brand sponsorships, Carmen Dominguez's hand jerked.

She'd been applying a matte crimson, describing its undertones to four hundred thousand concurrent viewers, when the notification hit. The lipstick skidded across her hand, a wound-bright streak against her perfect skin.

Izzy_the_Inflatable wants to raid your stream. Accept or decline?

Carmen's breath stopped.

She knew that name. Knew it with the certainty of trauma, with the visceral memory of a basement and a locked door and a man who collected beautiful things until they broke. Last time-last life-this had happened differently. Later. After the obsession had fully transferred, after she'd already been drowning.

But here. Now. Early.

Her eyes found the viewer list, searching for the golden icon that meant everything and nothing. A.C. He was there. He was always there, watching, waiting, calculating the exact pressure required to make her shatter.

And now he was watching this.

Carmen's mind raced through possibilities. Refuse, and look threatened. Accept, and risk-what? The fat girl couldn't hurt her. Couldn't compete with lighting and filters and five million followers. But Ambrose-Ambrose was the variable. Ambrose was the storm.

Unless.

The thought crystallized, terrible and perfect. If he was watching this, if he was curious about this new thing, this Izzy-then maybe. Maybe she could finally breathe.

Her finger moved. The accept button turned green.

The screen split. Left side: Carmen, golden and glowing, every pixel optimized. Right side: a cheap anime avatar, mouth moving slightly out of sync, the digital equivalent of a paper bag over the head.

Twenty-three thousand viewers, combined. The servers groaned.

Carmen arranged her face into welcoming surprise, the expression she'd practiced in mirror hours, the one that said approachable and authentic and not a threat to anyone. "Hi Izzy! I've heard so much about your voice. It's really beautiful."

Isabelle heard the tension underneath. The micro-tremor in the vowels, the too-controlled breathing. This woman was afraid-not of her, not of the challenge, but of something else. Something bigger.

Interesting.

"Since it's a challenge," Isabelle said, "let's make it worth something."

She watched Carmen's eyes flicker, calculation and dread. "What did you have in mind?"

"The loser turns off everything. Filters. Avatars. Ten minutes of raw reality."

The chat detonated. Carmen's fans screamed outrage-how dare this nobody, this whale, this joke demand anything from their queen? Isabelle's new followers rallied, outnumbered but vicious, hungry for blood.

Carmen stared at the screen. At the cheap pink avatar. At the golden A.C. still sitting in her viewer list, silent, watching.

She thought of the basement. Of the locks. Of the way Ambrose's fingers had felt against her throat, gentle and absolute, measuring her pulse like he owned it.

"Deal," she said, and smiled with all her teeth.