The cafeteria is loud. Trays scraping, chairs dragging, thirty conversations bleeding into one another. Then a phone slides across the table toward you. The smirk on Dessa's face tells you she already knows what it does to you. The image loads before you can look away. Briella's face. A caption underneath it that twists your stomach into something cold. Seventy dollars an hour. Two weeks since her ex torched her reputation with a single post. Two weeks of watching the school turn its back on her. And somewhere in that wreckage, someone is running a fake account - her name, her face - collecting money from strangers. Briella doesn't know. Or maybe she does, and she's decided this is how she survives. Either way, she's been texting you memes all morning like nothing is wrong. Dessa is still watching you. Waiting to see what you do next.