The car hums beneath me, a soft vibration that usually soothes.
Tonight it does nothing.
I lean back against the leather seat, my eyes heavy, my body aching with the kind of tired that settles into bones and refuses to leave. The chaos of the day is finally settled—the news outlets silenced, the worst of the rumors contained.
But control is a fragile thing.
On paper, everything is under control.
But the internet doesn't follow paper rules.
I pull out my phone. Just to check. Just to make sure.
The screen glows in the dim car, and I scroll through social media automatically, my thumb moving without thought.
Then I stop.
A post. New. Gaining traction.
*Angel is trying to ruin our superstar Moon's reputation. I hate it.*
My jaw tightens. I scroll down, reading the comments beneath. Dozens of them. Hundreds. All agreeing, all piling on, all spewing venom about someone they've never met, never spoken to, never given a chance.
*He's using Moon for fame.*
