Chapter 1: The Million-Dollar DM
The neon glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling were supposed to be charming. That’s what Skylar had thought when she’d peeled them from the sheet and stuck them up there the first night in the apartment. Now, staring at them from the tousled bed, they just looked cheap and sad, a kid’s idea of atmosphere in a room that smelled like stale coffee and despair.
A box of her stuff—mostly books and the good shampoo she was saving for a special occasion—still sat slumped in the corner, the tape peeling back on its own. Edward’s laptop hummed on the floor beside the bed, a persistent, electric whine that had become the soundtrack to her insomnia.
Her own phone buzzed against her thigh, a violent shudder in the quiet.
She fumbled for it, the cracked screen door letting in a sliver of LA moonlight that cut across the bed. The light from her phone was brighter, harsher. A Fanfix notification. A direct message.
Most were harmless. Creepy, sometimes, but harmless. Guys asking for a special photo, a personalized video, offering fifty, maybe a hundred bucks. She’d done a few. Edward knew, sort of. He called it her “side hustle,” said it was empowering, his voice always a little fuzzy from the weed. He never asked for details. She was glad he didn’t.
This message was not like the others.
The username was a generic string of numbers. The profile was blank. But the message…
We’ve been following your work. You have a captivating authenticity. We represent a private collector with exceptionally specific tastes. He is prepared to offer you one million dollars, transferred upfront and entirely discreet, for a single, exclusive content series. The parameters are non-negotiable and explicitly adult. This is a one-time offer. If interested, signal your agreement by posting a red circle on your main story feed within the next 24 hours. We will then provide secure, encrypted details.
Skylar’s breath left her body in a slow, silent leak. The numbers swam on the screen. One million dollars. She read it again. Then a third time, her lips moving silently around the words non-negotiable and explicitly adult.
A million dollars.
That was get out of debt money. That was help my parents money. That was security deposit on a place with actual sunlight and a working garbage disposal money. That was never have to nervously check your bank balance before buying groceries money.
Her heart wasn’t racing; it was pounding a frantic, erratic drum solo against her ribs. She felt simultaneously hot and cold.
She looked away from the screen, seeking an anchor in the dim room. Her gaze found Edward, splayed on the futon they’d shoved against the far wall. He was out, headphones askew, a half-smoked joint precariously pinched between his slack fingers. The soft blue light from a bass amp he’d been tinkering with earlier illuminated the peaceful, empty slope of his face. A line of drool connected his chin to the cushion. He was probably dreaming about a synth riff.
The sight of him, so utterly oblivious, so deeply unconcerned with the terrifying math of their lives, ignited a spark of anger that cut through the shock.
She got up, the thin blanket falling away, and padded across the gritty laminate floor. She stood over him, her shadow falling across his face. The sweet, skunky scent of cheap weed clung to him.
“Ed,” she said. Her voice came out a dry croak.
He snorted, smacked his lips, and turned his head away.
“Edward. Wake up.”
“Mmmf. ‘S not morning.” He pulled a cushion over his face.
“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
He groaned, moving the cushion just enough to reveal one sleep-gummed eye. “Sky, c’mon. I was finally asleep. Is the bathroom leaking again?”
“No. It’s not the bathroom.” She held up her phone, the message glowing like a live coal in the dark. “I got an offer.”
He pushed himself up on his elbows, blinking slowly. He took the phone, his eyes scanning the text. She watched his face, waiting for the shock, the alarm, the something. His expression shifted from confusion to a faint, drowsy frown. He handed the phone back like it was a mildly interesting grocery receipt.
“Yeah, that’s a scam, babe. A million dollars? Come on. Probably some creep in a basement trying to get free pictures. Report it and block them.”
The dismissal was so casual, so absolute, it felt like a physical slap. “You didn’t even read the whole thing,” she whispered, the anger turning into something sharper, more brittle.
“I read enough. ‘Private collector.’ ‘Explicitly adult.’ It’s gross, Sky. You’re not that.”
“What am I, then?” The question hung in the stale air. “What are we, Edward? We’re two months behind on rent. My ‘side hustle’ is buying the groceries. You spent last week’s grocery money on that vintage pedal that doesn’t even work.”
He sat up fully now, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’m gonna fix the pedal. And I’ve got that interview next week with the studio in Burbank. It’s a real engineering gig.”
“You’ve had three interviews in six months. They don’t call back.” She hated the hardness in her voice, but she couldn’t stop it. “This is a million dollars. One job. One. We could be okay. We could breathe.”
“By selling some fucked-up fetish video to some billionaire freak?” His voice was rising, stripped of its usual laid-back haze. “That’s not ‘being okay,’ Skylar. That’s selling the one actually real thing you’ve got going—your art. Your vibe online is you, it’s cool, it’s genuine. This?” He pointed at the phone. “This is turning you into a product. It’s soul shit.”
“My soul feels pretty fucking crowded by all these overdue bills!” The words burst out of her, louder than she intended. “You don’t get to talk about ‘selling out’ from your cozy little cloud of pot smoke while I’m the one constantly refreshing the damn payment app, trying to make it all work! This isn’t about art, Edward. This is about not getting evicted!”
He stared at her, his face a mask of hurt and confusion. “So you’re actually considering it? You’d actually do… whatever this is?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? The terrifying, heart-stopping core of it. Would she? The offer was a dark, open doorway. She had no idea what was on the other side, only that it promised to solve every material problem she’d ever had.
“I don’t know,” she said, and her voice broke. “But I think I have to at least… listen.”
Edward shook his head slowly, a profound disappointment settling into his features. He laid back down, turning his body toward the wall, pulling the cushion back over his head. “Do what you gotta do,” he mumbled, the words muffled and final.
The silence that followed was absolute and crushing. It was louder than their argument. The hum of the laptop was a scream. The glow of the fake stars was a mockery.
Skylar looked back at her phone. The timer, unspoken but felt, had already started. Twenty-four hours.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. In her Fanfix app, she navigated to her story. The camera faced her, capturing her wide, scared eyes in the dim light, her long hair a messy cascade over her shoulders. She was just a girl in a dark, cramped room.
She selected the drawing tool. Chose the color.
Red.
With a trembling finger, she painted a single, imperfect, blazing red circle in the center of the blank story frame. It looked like a wound. It looked like a target.
She held her breath and pressed send.
The apartment was silent. Edward didn’t move. Out the cracked door, the endless, indifferent lights of Los Angeles shimmered. Skylar sat on the edge of the bed, the phone dark in her lap, waiting for the world to change.