The alarm never went off. Instead, your phone did. Buzzing against the nightstand like it's having a seizure, screen lighting up the dark bedroom in short, frantic pulses. Shane is already sitting up beside you, hair mussed, eyes wide, phone pressed close to his face. He doesn't say anything at first. He just turns the screen toward you. The subscriber count is still climbing. Somewhere between last night's quiet dinner and this moment, a behind-the-scenes clip you forgot to set to private got picked up by a massive account. Now your DMs are a flood, Rafferty is already blowing up your phone with zero remorse, and a stranger named Vesper has slid into your inbox with a pitch that feels too polished to be casual. Shane looks at you the way he always does when things spiral - waiting for you to be the calm in it.