The waitress had barely set the salad down before Mandy Bailey decided the entire restaurant owed her its life.

“There are nuts in this,” she snapped, loud enough for the whole corner of the Los Angeles bistro to hear. “Are you trying to hurt me?”

Cass froze, pen hovering over her order pad. The hum of lunch hour at Laurel & Vine—clinking cutlery, soft pop music, distant blender at the bar—seemed to dip under the sharp edge of that voice.

“I’m so sorry,” Cass said quickly. “I didn’t know you had a nut allergy. You didn’t mention—”

“You should have asked,” Mandy cut in, rolling her eyes. “What if I’d already taken a bite? Do you want that on your conscience?”

Across the table, Alicia shifted in her chair, cheeks flushing. “Mandy, it’s not that serious. You didn’t eat any—”

“My life is literally on the line, and you think I’m being dramatic?” Mandy flicked a strand of glossy hair over her shoulder. Even sitting down, everything about her screamed Look at me: the designer hoodie, the perfect winged eyeliner, the glossy lips that had just filmed a story for more than a million TikTok followers before the salad arrived.

Cass pressed her fingers around the edge of the tray so they wouldn’t shake.

“You’re right,” she said, forcing a professional smile. “I’ll go talk to the chef. I’ll have them remake it without nuts, and I’ll take this one off your bill, okay?”

“I don’t have time to sit here and wait,” Mandy said. “Unlike you, I actually have important things to do. So remake the salad, make one for my friend, and we’ll take both to go.”

She slid the plate away like it was contaminated and pulled out her phone, the ring light reflection visible in her pupils.

“I’ll be right back,” Cass said.

She turned before her shoulders could slump, weaving through the tables toward the kitchen. At the pass, she exhaled, pressing the heels of her hands briefly into her eyes.

“Everything okay?” her manager asked, wiping his hands on a towel.

“That girl at table twelve says she has a nut allergy,” Cass explained. “There were candied pecans on the salad. She wants two new ones. To go. No nuts. Off the bill.”

Mike grimaced. “Did she tell you about the allergy when she ordered?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Just remake them. It’s Los Angeles. One bad video and we’re a meme.”

Cass didn’t miss the way his gaze drifted toward the dining room, where Mandy was now laughing at something on her phone, head tipped back, hair perfect from every angle. She looked like every other influencer who’d ever come through the doors—only somehow louder, more certain the world owed her something.

“She, uh… she said she has a big social media following,” Cass added reluctantly. “Threatened to tell her followers not to come here.”

“Of course she did.” Mike shook his head. “Fine. We’ll comp it. No point fighting a ring light.”

Cass carried the remade salads back a few minutes later, lids tucked neatly on top.

“Here you go,” she said. “No nuts. No charge. Again, I really am sor—”

“It’s about time,” Mandy said, not looking up. “And you can tell your boss he’s lucky I’m letting this go. I could ruin this place in one video.”

Her phone dinged. Mandy’s glossy mouth curved.

“Ten thousand likes in the first hour,” she announced to Alicia, turning the screen so Cass could see the dizzying number under a recent selfie. “That’s insane.”

“Not that I’m surprised,” Alicia said, trying to sound impressed and concerned at the same time. “What are people saying?”

Mandy swiped through her comments, reading aloud in a mocking singsong.

“‘Gorgeous, you should be on the cover of a magazine.’ ‘Love that fit, did you get it at Forever 21?’” Her face hardened. “Are you kidding me?”

She started furiously typing.

“I don’t want to see your face in my comments anymore,” she muttered as she wrote. “I only wear designer clothes. Not cheap knockoffs from Forever 21. Like you, Maddie.”

“Mandy, no,” Alicia whispered. “She probably meant it nicely. A lot of people love that store. You don’t need to—”

“Too late,” Mandy said. “Already sent. And blocked. Ugh. Annoying.”

Cass swallowed. Forever 21 was where she bought most of her work pants.

She turned away before Mandy could see the hurt flicker across her face.

At the counter, Cass tried to shake it off. The girl with the ring light and the million followers would leave. The tables would turn over. The restaurant would close at midnight and open again tomorrow, and Cass would still be there, tying her apron, counting tips.

“What was that all about?” asked Mike quietly as he signed the comped receipt.

“Just another influencer,” Cass said. “Thinks the world revolves around her.”

He glanced at her nametag, at the tightness in her jaw. “Don’t let it get to you.”

“I won’t,” she lied.

Because the truth was, it already had.

The next day, in a glass-walled conference room thirty minutes away in Beverly Hills, the same influencer was practicing a very different version of herself.

“I just feel so strongly about kindness,” Mandy said, leaning forward so the sunlight hit her cheekbones. “Like, with my platform, I have a responsibility to make the world nicer, you know? Bullying is a huge problem in American schools. If I can help even one girl feel seen… then the trolls are worth it.”

Across the sleek white table, the CEO of Brightline Jewelry nodded, eyes bright. Her name was Harper. She had a blazer in soft ivory, a wedding ring that caught the light when she reached for her iced latte, and a photo of a gap-toothed girl on her laptop background.

“My daughter would love to hear you say that,” Harper said. “She’s in seventh grade in Santa Monica, and she’s been dealing with some really mean girls. Hearing you talk about this on TikTok… it meant the world to her.”

Mandy put a hand over her heart. “That breaks my soul,” she said smoothly. “I know what that feels like. Believe it or not, I get bullied too. Just this morning, this girl was making fun of my outfit in the comments.”

“Oh no,” Harper murmured.

“But I did what I always do,” Mandy said, voice softening. “I responded with love. I told her I appreciated her opinion and that I hoped her day got better. Honestly? I pray for people like that. Hurt people hurt people, right?”

Harper’s eyes shone. “You are exactly the kind of person we want fronting this campaign.”

On the table between them lay a velvet case. Inside, delicate friendship bracelets glimmered—thin gold-toned chains with small charms in the shape of hearts and speech bubbles. They weren’t real gold; Harper had explained earlier that they wanted to keep them affordable for teens in Ohio and Oregon, not just kids on the Westside.

Each bracelet would come with a card printed with a pledge: I choose to be kind. I choose to speak up. I choose to stand against bullying.

“And this is why this is more than just a jewelry line,” Harper continued. “We’ll donate a portion of the profits to anti-bullying organizations across the United States, run school assemblies, social campaigns. A whole ‘be the friend you wish you had’ movement. And with you as the face of it…”

“Wow,” Mandy breathed. “I’m honored.”

She was also doing math in her head.

Harper slid a folder across the table. Mandy opened it and nearly choked.

“Fifty thousand dollars?” she blurted.

“As your initial campaign fee,” Harper said. “Plus performance bonuses if the line hits certain numbers. And if things go well—which I’m confident they will—we’d love to extend your contract for next year for significantly more.”

Mandy saw it then, like a montage: magazine covers at the checkout aisle in Target; a glossy billboard over the 101 freeway; morning show hosts in New York saying her name. Her “one thing about me” rap over a TikTok of her signing the contract would absolutely break three million views.

“I’m in,” she said, grabbing the pen before Harper could finish.

She signed with a flourish.

By Friday, the money had landed in her account.

“Fifty grand, girl,” Alicia said, staring at Mandy’s phone screen as they stood outside a Porsche dealership in West L.A. “Do you know how many salads I have to serve to see that kind of money?”

“You won’t be serving salads for long,” Mandy said, tossing her hair. “Once our content blows up, brands will be lining up for you too.”

Alicia snorted. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

The salesman approached with a practiced smile. “Miss Bailey? The 911 you asked to see is ready.”

He led them over to a sleek white Porsche that gleamed like a spaceship under the lot lights.

“Oh,” Mandy exhaled. “I need it.”

“Didn’t you tell the realtor your budget for the apartment was three grand a month?” Alicia whispered. “Now you’re looking at a car that costs more than some people’s houses.”

“Relax,” Mandy said. “It’s only ten thousand down and five thousand a month. Brightline said the fifty K is just the first payment. There’s going to be lots more where that came from.”

“Still, maybe we should… I don’t know… think about it for longer than five—”

“Film a quick TikTok,” Mandy interrupted, unlocking her phone. “There’s this trend where you brag about yourself to a beat. It’ll go crazy.”

She hopped in front of the car, flipped her hair, and started rapping.

“One thing about me is I just got a Porsche,
Signed a big deal and I’m about to buy a house, of course…”

Alicia held the phone, trying to ignore the little knot of worry forming in her stomach.

The house came next.

A modern two-bedroom in West Hollywood with floor-to-ceiling windows, white walls, and a rooftop deck that looked out over the washed-out blue of the Los Angeles skyline. The rent was double the budget she’d given the real estate agent.

“You’ll love this place,” the Realtor cooed, heels clacking against polished concrete floors. “The light is perfect for filming. And you said you wanted an office for your brand deals, right?”

“It’s a little over the price range you gave me,” Alicia ventured.

“Only by five thousand,” the Realtor chirped. “A month. But for Mandy, that’s just an investment in content.”

“Mandy, I really don’t think—”

“Alicia,” Mandy said, already taking wide-angle shots of the living room. “Think about the Reels. The transformation videos. ‘Influencer moves into her dream L.A. apartment’—instant viral. It’ll pay for itself.”

She signed the lease that afternoon.

On Saturday, Mandy almost ran into Cass.

Cass had the day off from Laurel & Vine. She’d squeezed into a parking lot near Melrose Avenue after circling three times, her old Civic wheezing like it needed a nap. Her paycheck from the restaurant had been just enough to cover her half of the rent on the tiny North Hollywood apartment she shared with two roommates. But she’d set aside twenty bucks for something small.

A dress, maybe. Something simple but pretty; nothing that would break the bank. There was a consignment boutique she liked that occasionally had deals if you dug long enough.

She found it on the third rack—a soft, champagne-colored slip dress that skimmed down like melted silk. Not a brand she recognized, but it had a red sale tag, the price slashed to something within reach.

She held it up in front of the mirror, cheeks flushing. For a second, the girl staring back wasn’t just a waitress in black sneakers. She could have been anyone.

“Um, hello?”

Cass lowered the dress.

Mandy stood in the doorway of the fitting area, sunglasses pushed up on her head, a frown already forming.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s you. The salad girl.”

“I prefer ‘server,’” Cass said. “And yeah. Hi.”

Mandy’s eyes flicked to the dress, then back to Cass’s face.

“I need that,” she said.

Cass blinked. “Sorry?”

“The dress,” Mandy clarified. “I have a photo shoot for a jewelry campaign. The cover of a magazine, probably. This would be perfect. Where did you get it?”

“Off that rack,” Cass said slowly. “I saw it first.”

Mandy snorted. “And?”

“And I’m holding it,” Cass said. “So I’m going to try it on.”

Mandy stepped closer, staring hard, as if trying to place her. Something flickered in her expression for a split second.

Then she dismissed it.

“Listen,” she said. “I don’t have time to explain how this works. I have a stylist coming and a campaign to shoot. I need that dress, and I’m not going to wear it after you’ve stretched it out.”

The words were a scalpel: quick, precise, deeper than they looked.

“Wow,” Cass said. “You really haven’t changed.”

Mandy rolled her eyes. “Do we know each other?”

Cass felt something old and raw twist in her chest.

“Middle school,” she said. “San Fernando Middle, eighth grade. I was the kid in the baggy hoodie and side ponytail you made fun of in the cafeteria. Cassie Goldberg.”

Mandy stared blankly.

“Sorry,” she said finally. “You’re just not… memorable.”

Cass laughed once, a sound with no humor in it.

“That’s funny,” she said. “Because I remember you perfectly.”

Mandy folded her arms. “Look, I don’t have time for some stroll down memory lane. I have a call with my agent in, like, ten minutes.”

“Then I’ll make it quick,” Cass said, fingers tightening around the hanger. “You see, when I was twelve, I got diagnosed with a rare health condition. Nothing life-threatening, but I had to take these pills. They helped, but they had a side effect: I gained weight. A lot, in a short time. I felt like my body didn’t even belong to me anymore.”

Mandy shifted impatiently. “And that’s my problem because…?”

“Because you made sure everyone at school noticed,” Cass said steadily. “You laughed about how my uniform didn’t fit. You asked me, loud enough for half the cafeteria to hear, if I’d eaten two lunches. You called me names. You threw food at me once. Do you remember that? Chicken nuggets bouncing off my tray while you filmed on your little pink phone?”

Mandy opened her mouth, then closed it.

“I ate lunch in the bathroom for weeks after you started,” Cass went on. “I stopped wanting to raise my hand in class because you’d say things like, ‘Careful, she might crush her desk.’ Kids followed your lead. It got so bad I begged my parents to transfer me. I switched schools halfway through the year just to get away from you.”

Her voice trembled. She took a breath.

“So when I saw your face again? At the restaurant? All those feelings came back. The shame. The insecurity. I still struggle to believe I’m not ugly no matter what I weigh. You helped carve that into me.”

For the first time since Cass had encountered her at Laurel & Vine, Mandy’s bravado faltered. Just for a heartbeat.

Then the mask was back.

“If anything, you should be thanking me,” Mandy said lightly. “You look great now. Those pills, or whatever… they clearly worked. So you’re welcome.”

A voice floated over from the front of the store.

“Hi, welcome in! Oh my gosh, are you… Mandy? From TikTok?”

A sales associate hustled over, beaming, hands clasped. “I love your videos,” she gushed. “You’re amazing. Do you need a fitting room?”

“Yes,” Mandy said, eyes flicking up and down the champagne dress. “As soon as she gives me that.”

Cass stepped back.

“You know what?” she said. “Take it. If you really need it that badly, you can have it.”

Mandy’s lips curved. “Thought so.”

“But I’ll say this,” Cass added. “For someone about to front an anti-bullying campaign and be the ‘face of kindness’ for kids all over America, you’re still remarkably cruel.”

Mandy froze. “What did you just say?”

Cass nodded toward the velvet logo on Mandy’s tote bag. Brightline Jewelry.

“I work in customer service,” Cass said. “I hear things. New campaign, friendship bracelets, big heartwarming story. You’re very on brand.”

Then she walked away, leaving Mandy standing there clutching the dress like it was armor.

The video went up two days later.

It started in Cass’s tiny North Hollywood bedroom, twinkle lights glowing faintly on the wall behind her. She wore a simple T-shirt, no makeup, hair pulled back. A TikTok trending sound beat underneath her voice.

“One thing about me,” Cass rapped, eyes locked on the camera, “I was bullied in school by a girl named Mandy, who thought body-shaming was cool…”

She told the story quickly, thirty seconds of rhyme and rhythm. The pills, the weight gain, the cafeteria laughter, the bathroom lunches. She didn’t swear. She didn’t threaten. She just told the truth, ending with:

“…and now she says she’s changed, says she’s kind, says she cares,
But some of us still carry what she put in there.”

The comments exploded.

“Wait, is this about the Mandy with 1.2 mil?”
“Not you coming for the ‘anti-bullying’ queen 😳”
“I had a girl like this in my school. They never apologize.”

Within hours, other videos followed.

“So I guess it’s my turn,” said a girl with blue box braids and thick glasses in another stitch. “I was fifteen when she called my outfit ‘thrift store trash’ and blocked me for DM-ing her. That ‘always respond with kindness’ stuff? That’s not the girl who humiliated me.”

“I met her at a mall once,” said another creator, Jess from the Valley. “Asked for a photo. She looked me up and down, said ‘I don’t take pics when I don’t have makeup on,’ and walked away. I cried in the food court.”

#MandyMadeMeTrend began to climb the For You page.

At Brightline Jewelry’s Beverly Hills office, Harper watched one of the videos on a laptop someone had wheeled into her conference room. Her cappuccino sat untouched, foam collapsing.

“And my point is,” Jess concluded in the viral clip, “not all influencers are who they pretend to be. Careful who you let be the ‘face’ of kindness.”

The video cut off. The room was very quiet.

“Is this real?” Harper asked.

Her assistant nodded grimly. “There are dozens more. Screenshots of comments, DMs. Some from years ago, some from last week. And that server from Laurel & Vine posted security cam footage. You can hear Mandy threatening to ruin the restaurant over a salad.”

Harper’s stomach dropped. “We didn’t know about this.”

“She says a line in the video about the campaign,” the assistant added. “It’s already getting picked up as ‘the bullying face of anti-bullying.’”

There was a knock.

Mandy swept into the room in a white blazer and the champagne dress, hair styled in soft waves. She flashed her practiced smile.

“Hey, guys,” she said. “Ready to talk renewal?”

Harper closed the laptop.

“Mandy,” she said quietly. “We need to talk about something else first.”

“What happened to ‘never believe everything you see online’?” Mandy demanded twenty minutes later, eyes flashing. “They’re just jealous. This is cancel culture. It’s out of control.”

She sat stiffly in the chair, hands clenched around the arms.

“There are so many,” Harper said, struggling to keep her voice even. “This isn’t just one upset person. It’s a pattern.”

“A pattern of haters,” Mandy shot back. “I mean, come on. You think I remember every random girl I went to middle school with? People gain weight, people lose weight. That’s life. And who knows what these girls are leaving out? It’s my side versus theirs, and you’re choosing them?”

“Cass remembers,” Harper said. “She spelled out details—the name of your school, the year. And then there’s the footage from the restaurant. And the screenshots of your own comments, calling people ‘cheap’ and ‘basic’ for shopping at certain stores. Our entire campaign is about fighting that kind of elitism.”

“That Forever 21 girl?” Mandy scoffed. “I was defending myself. I have standards. I can’t help it if people are sensitive.”

Harper stared at her. The woman sitting in front of her was not the same girl who had talked about kindness over iced lattes.

Or maybe she was exactly the same, and Harper had just wanted to believe otherwise.

“We partnered with you,” Harper said slowly, “because we thought you were the kind of role model our daughters could look up to. The kind of person who had been hurt and didn’t want anyone else to feel that way.”

“I am,” Mandy insisted.

“Then where is that person right now?” Harper asked. “Because all I’m hearing is blame.”

Silence stretched.

“I’m going to be honest,” Harper said finally. “We can’t move forward with the renewal. Our board has already voted. We’re pausing the campaign and looking for a new spokesperson.”

Mandy’s throat worked. “You can’t do that. We already launched. The bracelets are everywhere. There’s a magazine cover—”

“We’ll honor what we’ve already paid you,” Harper said. “We never break contracts. But we can’t extend this one. And we will be releasing a statement clarifying that we take accusations of bullying seriously.”

Mandy’s carefully built world trembled on its foundation.

“You’re making a huge mistake,” she said, her voice small and sharp at the same time. “Do you know who I am? My next brand will go viral and you’ll regret this. You’ll be begging to work with me again.”

Harper didn’t flinch.

“Be nice to people on your way up,” she said quietly. “Because you might pass them again on your way down. That’s what my mother always told me.”

She stood.

“This meeting is over, Mandy. I truly hope you learn something from this.”

The fall was faster than the climb.

Within a week, Mandy’s follower count plunged by hundreds of thousands. The Porsche payment hit her account on the same day her agent called and said they were dropping her “for brand safety reasons.” Her manager followed. The landlord of her West Hollywood apartment texted a polite reminder about rent.

Screenshots circulated: Mandy’s Forever 21 insult, her threats to the restaurant, an old tweet telling a girl she looked “like a potato” in a school dance dress.

She posted a Notes app apology, black text on white.

“I’m human,” she wrote. “I make mistakes. If I ever hurt you, I’m sorry. I’m still learning.”

The comments shredded it within minutes.

“This isn’t a mistake. This is a personality.”
“So you’re sorry now that the money stopped?”
“Apology should be as loud as your bullying.”

She tried going live to “clear the air.” Ten minutes in, she started crying and ended the stream.

The week after, she listed the Porsche.

“It’s just a car,” she told Alicia, forcing a laugh as a man in a baseball cap inspected the leather seats. “I can always get another one when things blow over.”

A week after that, a notice came from the building: three days to pay or quit.

The day she dragged her last suitcase out of the echoing apartment, her Realtor texted.

Hey, just checking to make sure you’re fully out by three. I’ve got a new client coming to see the unit this afternoon. Really exciting girl—huge on TikTok right now. Anti-bullying campaign, brand deals, the whole thing. Full circle, right? 🙂

Mandy stared at the message until the words blurred.

When the doorbell buzzed, she opened it expecting the Realtor.

Instead, Cass stood there, sunlight framing her like a new version of herself.

Her hair was looser, curls framing her face, a soft blazer thrown over a simple tee. The straps of a designer bag—Brightline’s newest collab—crossed her shoulder. It looked real, not borrowed.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Mandy said.

Behind Cass, the Realtor appeared, slightly out of breath.

“There you are!” she gushed. “Mandy, thanks for being on time. Cass, welcome! The unit is empty and ready to show. You two know each other?”

“We do,” Cass said calmly. “Or at least, I know her.”

The Realtor’s eyes flicked between them, curious, but business won out.

“Let’s head up,” she said. “The light in the living room is amazing in the afternoon.”

Cass stepped inside. Mandy moved aside automatically, watching as the other girl took in the high ceilings, the spotless counters, the balcony where Mandy had once filmed “day in my life” videos with views of the Hollywood Hills.

“It’s beautiful,” Cass said honestly.

“Cass is actually the new face of Brightline’s anti-bullying campaign,” the Realtor chattered. “They relaunched the bracelets with her. She’s doing such great things, speaking at schools all over California. When she told me she wanted to move closer to the city, I immediately thought of this place.”

Mandy’s stomach flipped.

“You got the two hundred and fifty grand,” she said, realizing. “The extension.”

Cass’s gaze met hers.

“Yeah,” she said simply. “I did.”

The Realtor excused herself to “give them a minute” and disappeared into the kitchen.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick with things unspoken.

“So,” Mandy said finally, arms folded across her chest. “You win. Happy?”

“This isn’t about winning,” Cass said. She looked tired, but there was a steadiness in her eyes that hadn’t been there in the restaurant that first day. “This is about consequences.”

“Oh, spare me the motivational speech,” Mandy said. “I’ve lost followers, my car, my apartment. My brand deals are gone. Do you really think I need you standing in my old living room rubbing it in?”

Cass studied her.

“Do you remember what your friend said at the restaurant?” she asked. “Be nice to people on your way up, because you might pass them again on your way down.”

Mandy rolled her eyes. “Are you quoting my own story back at me?”

“Your friend was right,” Cass said. “You treated people like they were props in the content of your life. The waitress. The girl in your comments. Me, when I was thirteen. None of us were real to you. We were just obstacles or background characters.”

Mandy’s throat tightened. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough,” Cass said. “I know you never apologized. Not once. Not to me, not to any of the girls who recorded those videos. I know you only said sorry when your money was on the line. And I know that for all your talking about kindness, you never practiced it when you thought no one important was watching.”

Mandy sank down onto the edge of the now-bare couch, the cushions removed.

“What do you want from me?” she whispered. “Another video? A collaboration? For me to disappear?”

Cass exhaled slowly.

“I don’t want anything from you,” she said. “I’m not here to destroy you. The internet’s already done enough of that.”

She glanced at the empty space where Mandy’s ring light had once stood.

“I came to see the apartment because it’s close to the city and I can afford it now,” Cass said. “Because I worked double shifts and posted my stories and somehow, people listened. I came to see the place, and it just happened to still have your name on the lease.”

She moved toward the balcony doors, looking out at the hazy Los Angeles skyline—the palm trees, the freeway, the glittering promise of a city that could build you up and tear you down in a single post.

“For what it’s worth,” she added quietly, “I don’t think you’re beyond redemption. But you’re going to have to decide who you want to be when no one’s paying you to perform kindness.”

Mandy swallowed. “What if it’s too late?”

Cass turned back.

“Then you’re exactly where a lot of people are,” she said. “At the beginning.”

She started toward the hallway where the bedrooms were, then paused.

“Oh,” she said. “And one more thing.”

Mandy braced herself.

“Forever 21 has some really cute stuff,” Cass said. “Alicia was right. You might want to check it out.”

A faint, reluctant laugh slipped out of Mandy before she could stop it.

Cass smiled, just a little, then disappeared down the hall to measure closet space and imagine a different future in the same square footage.

In the empty living room, Mandy sat alone, the weight of her past words echoing louder than any trending sound.

Her phone buzzed.

A new follower.

Just one. A teen account with no profile picture, a bio that read: trying again.

She stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen.

Then, for the first time in a very long time, she typed something without thinking about brand deals or engagement.

“Hey,” she wrote. “Thanks for following. I’m… working on being better than I’ve been.”

She hit send.

Outside, traffic flowed along Sunset Boulevard, indifferent. In the distance, a billboard for Brightline’s new campaign showed Cass’s face next to the slogan: Be the friend you wish you had.

Somewhere between the Porsche dealership and the bus stop, between the Beverly Hills conference rooms and the middle school cafeterias she’d once ruled, the world had shifted.

The app icons on Mandy’s cracked screen still glowed the same.

But the girl staring back at her in the black mirror knew, finally, that likes could disappear in an hour.

What you did to people when the cameras weren’t rolling?

That was the part that stuck.