"That’s a buzzword."

"It’s the truth. Most streamers perform a version of themselves they think the audience wants. You just... are. You’re mean because you’re actually mean. You’re funny because you’re actually funny. You don’t pretend to be interested in things you don’t care about or fake enthusiasm for sponsors you think are stupid."

Lila’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted behind her eyes.

"And?"

"And that’s rare. Audiences can tell when someone’s performing versus when someone’s genuine. Your retention rates prove it. People who find your stream stay because they’re watching a real person, not a character."

"My retention rates are public?"

"Brooke found them."

Brooke didn’t look up from her notebook.

"Your average viewer session length is forty-seven minutes, which is significantly above platform average. Your chat engagement ratio is also notably high, suggesting strong parasocial connection despite your outwardly hostile persona. The data indicates that your audience perceives authenticity even when that authenticity involves you insulting them."

Lila blinked.

"That’s... actually kind of impressive analysis."

"I have additional metrics if you’re interested."

"Maybe later." Lila turned back to Jordan. "Fine. You made your case. What do you need from me?"

"Keep doing what you’re doing. Stream when you want, play what you want, maintain your brand. We’ll handle sponsorship outreach, negotiate deals, coordinate cross-promotion opportunities. When we land something, you get final approval on everything."

"What if I say no to a sponsor?"

"Then we don’t take the deal."

"Even if it’s a lot of money?"

"Your brand is worth more than any single sponsorship. Short-term cash at the cost of audience trust is a losing trade."

Lila studied him for several seconds. Her black-lined eyes searched his face for traces of bullshit, for the catch, for the inevitable moment where this would turn into yet another person trying to use her platform to sell protein powder or mobile game garbage.

She didn’t find it.

Finally, she spoke.

"You actually believe that."

"I do."

"Most managers would push for whatever makes money now. Worry about audience backlash later."

"Most managers would also lose you in six months when you told them to fuck off."

The corner of Lila’s mouth twitched.

Then she laughed.

Not her usual sharp bark of amusement or her sarcastic exhale. This was a genuine laugh, the kind that shook her shoulders and made her nose crinkle and revealed the eighteen-year-old girl underneath the gothic armor plating.

"You know what? I think this might actually work."

Kumiko didn’t wait for permission. She launched herself across the table with a sound somewhere between a squeal and a battle cry, wrapping her arms around Lila with enough enthusiasm to knock over an empty soju glass.

"Lila-chan!"

"I said not chan—forget it. Whatever." But Lila was hugging back, her black-painted nails stark against Kumiko’s pastel pink blouse. One hand came up to awkwardly pat Kumiko’s head. "You’re all insane and I’m going to regret this, but at least it won’t be boring."

"That’s the spirit!"

Chloe caught Jordan’s eye across the table.

Something passed between them.

Pride.

Progress.

The quiet satisfaction of a plan coming together.

Jordan raised his beer.

"To Nova Network. For real this time."

The glasses clinked together, and for a moment everything felt possible in a way it hadn’t three weeks ago when Jordan had been a pathetic shell of a person spending money he didn’t have on women who didn’t want him.

The private booth had grown warm with body heat and grill smoke, the kind of comfortable atmosphere that made time feel irrelevant. Brooke had relaxed enough to contribute observations without prompting. Kumiko had somehow ended up with sauce on her cheek that no one had the heart to point out. Chloe had loosened a button on her turtleneck, a concession to the heat that Jordan appreciated more than he should admit. Lila had consumed enough soju to make her commentary even sharper than usual.

It was good.

Better than good.

It was the kind of moment Jordan would have dismissed as impossible a month ago.

Then a voice cut through the ambient noise of the restaurant.

A familiar voice.

A valley girl accent dripping with complaint.

"Like, seriously? The reservation was for seven-thirty, not whenever you feel like showing up. Do you know how long we’ve been waiting? This is literally unacceptable."

Jordan’s head turned toward the sound.

A second voice followed, posh and refined in a way that sounded almost British-adjacent.

"Alexis, darling, perhaps we should simply enjoy the evening rather than cataloging every minor inconvenience?"

"Minor? MINOR? We’re sitting in the main dining area like common people while our private room gets ’prepared.’ Do you have any idea how many calories I’m burning just from the stress?"

Jordan shifted to look past the sliding screen.

The main dining room of Gogi House spread out before him, filled with couples and groups arranged around their own grills. But near the hostess stand, unmistakable even from twenty feet away, stood Alexis Van Der Berg.

She wore a cream-colored dress that ended mid-thigh, the neckline diving low enough to showcase the expensive architecture of her chest. Her honey-blonde hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders, and her makeup was flawless in that way that suggested either three hours of work or very expensive genetics. The dress hugged every curve like it had been custom-tailored specifically to make people stare, which it probably had.

Beside her stood a woman Jordan didn’t recognize. Tall, elegant, with auburn hair pinned up in an elaborate style that screamed old money. Her dress was equally expensive but more conservative, navy blue with pearl accents that caught the light when she moved.

Alexis was gesturing dramatically at the hostess, her perfectly manicured hands cutting through the air with each complaint.

Then she turned.

Her eyes swept across the restaurant.

And landed directly on Jordan.

The recognition hit her face like a physical impact. Her mouth fell open. Her hand stopped mid-gesture. Her entire body went still in a way that suggested her brain had encountered a fatal error and was attempting to reboot.

Jordan McKnight.

In her restaurant.

Looking like that.

With women.

Multiple women.

Beautiful women.

Sitting in a private booth.

Eating expensive meat.

Like he belonged there.

Kumiko, blessed with the social awareness of a golden retriever, noticed Jordan’s attention had shifted. She leaned past him to see what he was looking at, her face appearing in the gap of the sliding screen.

"Ooh! Alexis-chan!"

She waved enthusiastically, her entire arm moving with the motion.

"Hiiii!"