The first time Courtney Morton saw Christopher Reynolds on a screen, she rolled her eyes.
It was a collaboration video for a small brand, months before either of them had any real following.
Courtney's channel was still a hobby, a patchwork of DIY vlogs, lifestyle snippets, and quiet little glimpses into her messy, chaotic apartment.
Christopher, on the other hand, had a sarcastic commentary style that was impossible to ignore, roasting tech fails, poking fun at unboxing disasters, all with a grin that seemed effortless, like he knew exactly how to hold the camera and the audience at the same time.
'Annoying,' she thought at first, 'but… I can't stop watching.'
There was something magnetic about him, the way he leaned into the joke yet never felt fake, the way his eyes sparkled when a gadget inevitably broke under his scrutiny.
She had to admit it, even aloud to herself: he made the content better. He made her laugh. And despite herself, she felt a tiny spark of competition flare in her chest.
'Why does he make it look so easy? And why do I care?'
By the end of the video, she was torn between irritation and admiration. Christopher Reynolds was infuriating, talented, and strangely compelling.
She couldn't have known it then, but this first encounter on a screen was the beginning of a connection that would pull her into a world far more dangerous than she could have imagined.
She had commented under his video:
Courtney: "You're hilarious. Not sure if I should be laughing or crying at my own laptop right now."
To her surprise, he responded—directly, not a generic bot reply:
Christopher: "Depends… are you laughing or crying? Either way, I approve."
It started with messages, short, witty exchanges about camera angles, lighting, and algorithms. Then came collabs: small TikToks, goofy crossover challenges, and live-stream hangouts where they'd make fun of each other in front of a handful of viewers.
Their styles were different, but that was exactly why it worked. Courtney's warmth balanced Christopher's sarcasm, and audiences started noticing.
And then they met in person for the first time at The Grid, a small but buzzing convention downtown dedicated entirely to content creators.
The building itself was unassuming from the outside, a renovated warehouse with exposed brick and industrial beams, but inside it was alive, booths stacked with ring lights, cameras, and brand logos.
The air humming with the low chatter of creators pitching collaborations, trading tips, and showing off their latest viral experiments.
Courtney still remembered it clearly: the smell of energy drinks mingling with coffee, the faint scent of electronics, and the way every corner seemed to vibrate with ambition.
She spotted Christopher immediately. He was standing near a display of new streaming gadgets, holding a camera like it was a prop in a joke only he understood.
The smirk was the same as on-screen, but somehow sharper in person, a mix of charm and mischief.
'Annoying… infuriating… and I still want to talk to him.'
He caught her staring, and for a moment, Courtney panicked, thinking he might mock her awkward approach. But then he waved, an easy, inviting gesture, and suddenly the air between them felt less like a screen and more like something tangible and real.
It was the first time she realized that the person behind the commentary wasn't just clever with words, he was clever with presence, with attention, with making people lean in.
'Great. Now I have to pretend I'm normal.'
By the end of the day, amidst the giveaways, branded swag, and excited chatter, Courtney knew something had shifted.
What started as a casual "hello" would become a connection neither of them fully understood yet but one that would pull them together as the strange, dark pattern began to take shape.
She walked in, carrying her camera bag like armor. A room full of people plastered with logos, all trying to network, all trying to chase the next big thing.
Christopher was crouched behind a camera tripod, filming a reaction video of someone tripping over their microphone cable.
"Really?" Courtney muttered to herself, shaking her head.
Christopher glanced up and smirked. "You talking to yourself again?"
Courtney froze. "Uh… yeah. Something like that."
He laughed. "Good. I prefer it when people talk to themselves. Usually the sane ones are too boring."
They spent the rest of the day walking from booth to booth, filming side-by-side. Courtney noticed that despite the constant jokes and jabs, he was meticulous about his shots, always thinking two steps ahead. It was easy to see why his channel was growing fast, even back then.
"You're serious about this, huh?" she asked when he packed up his tripod.
Christopher shrugged. "I take it seriously enough to make it fun. Otherwise, why do it at all?"
Courtney smiled. That's exactly how she felt too.
Over the next year, they built a loose network with other creators: Tyler Brooks, the loud comedian who never missed a chance to prank someone on camera.
Mia Chen, the soft-spoken aesthetic vlogger; Aaron Patel, the gamer with a cult following of diehard fans.
They celebrated each other's viral moments, shared advice about algorithms, and sometimes vented about sponsors who made absurd demands.
From the outside, it looked perfect. Collaborative. Supportive. A small family of content creators trying to carve out a space in a world obsessed with numbers.
But as the group grew, Courtney began noticing tiny patterns that no one else seemed to see. Creators who suddenly disappeared, burnout posts that seemed too raw to be casual, accidents that were conveniently unreported.
She chalked it up to chance, to stress, to the pressure of living life online.
And Christopher… well, he noticed too. Not the same things, exactly, but enough to raise questions he didn't dare ask out loud.
Now, sitting in her apartment with the notifications still climbing on her latest post, Courtney realized something terrifying: those small, unnoticed patterns weren't random.
Tyler's death was just the beginning.
And the network of friends she trusted, the people she met and laughed with online, were all… in danger.