The LiveStream System: Every Viewer Makes Me Rich

The Voice

"Sir, I understand that you are frustrated," the woman on the phone says for the fourth time. "But I cannot lift the hold until the review is complete."

"Ma'am, I'm not frustrated," I say. My jaw is so tight it clicks. "I just need to know how long it takes."

"Five to seven business days. Possibly ten."

I pull the phone away and stare at it like it insulted my mother. Then I put it back to my ear. It is 8:15 in the morning. I am sitting on the edge of my bed with sand behind my eyes, and I slept maybe two hours. I dreamed about a bank vault with my name on it that I could not open.

"My loan is due Friday."

"I am sorry to hear that."

"I have over eighteen thousand dollars in that account."

"Which is exactly why it was flagged, Mr. Brooks." Her voice stays flat and polite and cold. "Large deposits from an unlisted source, into an account that averages under three hundred dollars, trigger an automatic hold. If you can send documentation showing where the money came from, I can add a note to your file."

My stomach drops. "Documentation."

"A payout statement. A contract. A letter from the platform."

I look at the empty air near my monitor. The blue letters are gone this morning. The room is just a room again, with a radiator and a pizza box and a stain on the ceiling shaped like Ohio. There is nobody I can call to say, *Hello, a floating message pays me a hundred dollars for every person who listens.* They would put me in a hospital.

"I stream," I say slowly. "The platform pays me."

"Then the platform has a statement. The upload portal is on our website. Your case number is 4471-B."

"Thank you, Denise."

She hangs up. I fall backward onto the mattress and stare at Ohio.

"Great," I tell it. "Just great."

My phone buzzes against my chest.

**Dre:** *Open your door. I have bagels.*

When I swing it open, Dre is standing in the hall with a paper bag and a coffee tray, snow melting on his shoulders. He is short and lean with a round face and a huge grin, and today the grin looks a little too big, like he put it on for me.

"Good morning, sunshine." He pushes past me and sets the bag on my desk. "Tank said you looked bad last night. Tank never says anybody looks bad. He once told a guy who got hit by a bus that he looked a little tired."

I laugh. It comes out small and rusty, but it is real.

Dre turns around, and the grin slips. He looks at my face, my wrinkled shirt, the pizza box on the floor. His eyes go soft.

"Okay," he says quietly. "It's worse than I thought."

"I'm functionally fine."

"That's what a car says right before it dies on the highway."

We sit on the bed. He hands me a bagel and a coffee, and I take both because my throat has gone tight again and I cannot say thank you without it showing. Dre eats slowly, watching me out of the corner of his eye.

"The bank froze my account," I say at last.

"Why?"

"Last night's stream paid out more than usual. The platform sent it all at once. Their system flagged it."

Dre chokes on his coffee. "How much more than usual?"

"A lot."

"Like how much?"

"Eighteen thousand."

He coughs so hard his eyes water, and I have to pound his back.

"Eighteen THOUSAND? From the haters?"

"It's a platform thing," I say. It is the closest to a lie I have told him in years. It sits wrong in my stomach, like a swallowed stone. "I can't really explain it. But that’s one thing about streaming."

Dre stares at me for a long moment. He is not stupid. He has never been stupid. He is just kind enough to let people keep their secrets.

"Okay," he says. "I won't ask."

"Thank you."

"But if you're ever in trouble, you tell me. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Good. Because I'll fight whoever it is. From a low angle."

I laugh again, louder. He grins, relieved, and bumps my shoulder.

Then he pulls out his phone, and his face changes. "I didn't want to show you this. But it's everywhere."

It is Bree's post. The college photo. The pink letters. Overnight the numbers have exploded. Three point one million views. Two hundred and forty thousand likes. Nine thousand comments.

I read the first one aloud. "'Imagine trusting a voice. Never trust a voice.'"

"Skip that one."

"'She's so brave for speaking up.'"

"Skip."

I scroll. They are all the same. Cruel jokes, brave-sounding cruelty, cruelty dressed as concern. People have cut my voice from old streams and laid it over pictures of cartoon walruses wearing headsets. One has six hundred thousand views. My hands go numb, and the edges of my vision blur.

"Hey." Dre puts his hand flat on my arm. "Look at me. You don't have to read it."

"I know."

"Then why are you?"

"Because every one of them looked at me and decided what I am."

"Yeah," Dre says, and his own voice drops. "And every one of them is wrong."

Snow ticks softly against the window. Down the hall, Mrs. Haverty's morning show murmurs through the wall. For a moment neither of us says anything at all.

"I'm picking you up at noon," Dre says finally, clearing his throat. "Double shift. You need cash, and you can't touch the account. I know a place that gives free breadsticks if you ask nicely."

"Dre, I can't let you..."

"Stop being a martyr and let your best friend feed you."

My eyes sting. I nod once.

"Now put on a clean shirt," he adds, standing. "You smell like an old gym bag."

"I do not."

"You do. But I love you anyway."

By two o'clock the snow is coming down hard.

The pickup counter at Marlowe's Burger Barn smells like grease and wet coats. I stand in line with my insulated bag over my shoulder and my hood pulled low, doing my best to be a ghost. Every phone in the room feels aimed at me. Every glance feels like a camera.

"Caleb! Hey, buddy!"

I flinch. Kyle Mercer is waving from across the room, freckled and grinning, a scarf wound twice around his neck. He is another DashDrop driver, twenty-eight, his hairline already losing the war. He has been friendly to me since my first week. When my car died in November, he drove forty minutes to jump it.

"Hey, Kyle."

He claps me on the back. "Man, I saw it. That post. I'm so sorry." He leans in and lowers his voice. "I don't believe a word. You're a good dude. A little shy, but a good dude."

"Thanks." My shoulders loosen a little.

"Seriously. Anything you need, I'm here." He pulls out his phone. "Hey, what's your address again? My mom makes this lasagna that fixes everything. I'll drop one off."

The words rise to the front of my mouth. Then a small, cold thought slips in. *Why does he need it? He's been to my building once.*

I push it down. I have been paranoid since last night. I am tired.

"Penrose building," I say. "Apartment 3C."

"Perfect." He types quickly, and his smile never moves. "I'll bring it by this weekend."

My order number is called. I take the bag and nod at him and walk away.

I do not look back. If I did, I would see the smile slide off his face like wet paint as he sends a message.

The first delivery is fine. A woman with two toddlers on a porch in Lakewood. A five-dollar tip.

The second is not.

It is a big white house with a blue door and a Browns flag in the window. I climb the front steps carefully, because they are glazed with ice. I knock twice. A tall man in a Browns jersey opens the door, thirty or so, a beer in one hand. He takes the bag and starts to close the door.

Then he stops.

"Wait. Say something."

My stomach drops. "Excuse me?"

"Say 'enjoy your meal.'"

Snow lands on my eyelashes. "Enjoy your meal, sir."

His mouth falls open. His eyes light up like a kid's at Christmas, narrow, and light up again. He whips his head around and bellows into the house.

"BABE! COME HERE! IT'S HIM! MR. MIDNIGHT!"

Within ten seconds, there are three phones pointed at my face. A woman breathes, "It really is him." A teenager behind her whispers, "He's *huge,*" and giggles.

"Come on, man," the tall guy says, grinning, and there is nothing kind in it. "Say 'I'm sorry I lied.' In the voice. For the video."

I do not move. My hand tightens around the bag strap. My ears pound, and my cheeks burn so hot I feel it through the cold.

I could answer. I know the exact words. I have practiced them in the shower, in the car, in the dark. *You don't know me. You don't know what happened. Put the phone down.*

But Tank's voice is in my head. *That's not weakness. That's the opposite.*

I take a slow breath.

"I'm sorry about the wait," I say softly. "The fries go cold fast in this weather. I hope they're still warm. Have a good night, sir."

The man blinks. "What?"

I turn around and walk down the icy steps one at a time, with my head up. Behind me, the teenager's laugh dies in the middle. Somebody mutters, "Dude, stop." The door shuts.

At the curb, my legs go weak. I lean against my car with both hands flat on the cold roof, and I breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

My phone buzzes. A notification from the platform. His clip is already up, with laughing emojis and a caption: **"Catfish tries to act classy lmaooo."**

I almost laugh at how stupid it is. Then one comment catches my eye.

**WhiteRabbit_82:** *Wait. Why is everyone laughing? He didn't do anything. He delivered food and was polite.*

Three people have replied with *this.* One reply says *real.*

A small strange warmth moves behind my ribs.

My last delivery is at 10:30. A little brick duplex in Lakewood with a crooked porch light.

I knock. The door opens slowly, and an elderly woman peers out, small and round, with silver curls and a purple cardigan. Her glasses are so thick they make her eyes look enormous.

"Hello, dear. Oh, you must be freezing. Come in a minute."

"I'm okay, ma'am. I just need to hand you this..."

"Please." She smiles. "It's been a long time since anyone knocked on my door after dark."

Something in how she says it catches me. I step into a warm narrow hall with a floral rug and a hundred framed photos. A tall old man in a fishing hat. The same man on a porch. The same man holding a baby. The house smells of cinnamon and old paper.

She sets the food on a small table and turns to me, tilting her head.

"Say something for me, dear."

I tense. Not again. "Ma'am, I really don't think..."

"Please."

Slowly, carefully, I say, "I hope you enjoy your dinner, ma'am."

Her hand flies to her mouth.

For a long moment, she says nothing. Tears fill her eyes behind the thick lenses and spill down both cheeks. She steps toward me, and I step back out of habit, and she stops.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Ma'am, are you okay?"

"You're him," she says. "The man from the late-night stream. Mr. Midnight."

My hands hang useless at my sides. "Yes, ma'am. But I promise I'm not here to..."

"I saw what they said, dear. All those children on the internet." She wipes her face with her sleeve. "I don't care what you look like. I never did."

My throat locks.

"My husband Harold passed two years ago," she says. "Forty-six years married. He snored something terrible, and I hated it. And then one day he wasn't there to snore. The silence was so loud I couldn't sleep. For weeks, not at all."

"Ma'am..."

"One night I couldn't stand it. I turned on my granddaughter's old laptop and I found a voice. A kind one, reading a story to a stranger. And then you narrated some silly game so beautifully that I forgot I was lonely." Her hands twist together. "You said, 'Whoever is still awake out there, you are not alone.' I cried for an hour. And then I slept."

I cannot speak. My eyes burn.

"I've listened every night since." Her smile trembles. "You aren't a liar. You were a friend to me, and you never even knew it."

A sound escapes me that I did not mean to make, small and broken. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." She pats my arm. "Now sit. Let me make tea."

"I can't. I have to work."

"Then take this." She reaches into her cardigan and presses two folded bills into my hand. A twenty and a ten.

"Ma'am, no. It's too much."

"Hush." Her voice turns firm, almost scolding, like my grandmother's. "It's thirty dollars and a thank you. And I want you to keep that voice, do you hear me? Don't let anyone take it or discourage you."

I nod. 

At the door, I turn around. "What's your name, ma'am?"

"Eleanor Whitfield."

"Mrs. Whitfield," I say, and my voice breaks. "Thank you."

She waves with her small wrinkled hand. "Mind the ice, dear."

I make it to the car. I close the door. Then I put my forehead on the steering wheel and cry, quietly and completely, for a long time.

At 11:58, I am back at my desk.

My hands are steady for the first time all day. My eyes are puffy, and I do not care. I put on my headphones and switch the stream from private to public.

**[Viewers: 3... 28... 77.]**

I do not look at chat yet. I breathe. I say softly, "Good evening, everybody."

The blue letters appear.

**[DING.]**

**[Rule Two unlocked.]**

I sit up straight.

**[Goodwill: Every viewer who defends the host in a genuine, unprompted act earns Goodwill. Goodwill cannot be bought, faked, or requested. It is measured silently.]**

**[Goodwill 20: Defender tips return at 10x. Goodwill 30: Defender tips return at 20x.]**

My chest tightens. *So that's how it works.*

**[Hosts may not see a defender's score. Revenge is penalized.]**

The letters fade. The corner of the stream reads **Viewers: 311.**

I open chat. It is the same red river. *Fat. Fake. Pig. Liar.* But tonight a few small, careful voices swim among the insults.

*he delivers my sister's food sometimes, he's actually nice*

*stop spamming, let him talk*

I almost smile. "Thank you for being here," I say. "Whoever you are. I mean that."

Then a new line appears in lowercase gray.

**QuietNora:** *hi mr. midnight. i know my stream is tiny and this probably isn't a good time. but i wanted to say something.*

My heart skips for no reason I can name.

**QuietNora:** *i've watched you for a long time. you never talked down to anybody. not even people who deserved it. you read stories to strangers at 3am and never asked for anything.*

**QuietNora:** *whatever people say about how you look, nobody can say you aren't kind. i think that's rarer. i hope you know that.*

Chat goes quiet for half a second. Someone types *aww.* Someone types *simp.* Someone types *who is this?*

**QuietNora:** *sorry if this is awkward. i just thought somebody should say it out loud.*

I stare at her name. A knot rises in my throat. I swallow it.

"Nora," I say softly. "It's not awkward. It's the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time."

A tip chimes at the top of my screen.

**QuietNora donated $5.00: "for coffee. you sound tired."**

I laugh through the lump in my throat. Five dollars. Such a small, silly, human thing. I open my mouth to thank her again when the blue letters flash like lightning.

**[Defender detected: QuietNora. Goodwill: 30. Multiplier: 20x.]**

**[Payment returned: $100.]**

I freeze.

**[Note: Goodwill was already at maximum before this event.]**

*Already.* Before tonight. That means she did something long before tonight, something real and quiet, that the system counted. But what?

**[Reason: Not disclosed.]**

My eyes go back to chat. Nora has typed nothing more. Her name is a small gray dot in the viewer list, steady and patient.

Then my phone buzzes. Then buzzes again, harder, shaking across the desk.

It is a live announcement from Ty Blaze's channel, already at nineteen thousand viewers. The title reads:

**"THE FAT CATFISH WANTS TO PLAY? FINE. 1V1 IRONBIM. LOSER QUITS STREAMING FOREVER. FRIDAY. 8PM."**

My stomach drops through the floor.

In the preview, Ty grins, white-toothed and tan. Behind him, on his couch with her legs tucked under her, sits Bree. She raises one hand and waves at the camera.

At me.

In chat, Nora types four words.

**QuietNora:** *don't do it, caleb.*

And on the same screen, in glowing blue, the system speaks again.

**[Task issued: Accept the challenge.]**

**[Reward: $50,000.]**

**[Failure penalty: Unknown.]**