Page 3 of Griffin

Forcing a smile at the phone’s lens, I felt something cold and sticky drip onto my shoulder.

Mustard. I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my expression neutral.

“Sure, can’t wait,” I managed, my teeth grinding as I forced my face to stay neutral.

Shawn gave another exaggerated thumbs-up, and the person filming—Shawn’s assistant—finally lowered their phone.

“Did you get that?” Shawn asked, glancing at his assistant with a satisfied grin. “Make sure to tag him when you post the video,” he added, jerking his thumb in my direction.

I rolled my eyes. No surprises there.

We both knew I had the bigger following, and being linked to me in any way could only boost his views.

It was always the same with him—latching onto my popularity for a quick bit of clout.

While Shawn fiddled with his phone, probably checking the video, I grabbed Todd by the arm and marched out of the booth, not bothering to look back.

My mood sank deeper with each step, anger simmering beneath the surface, feeding off the memory of Shawn’s smug grin.

As we reached the center of the convention hall, the crowds seemed to swell around me, the noise intensifying.

Before I could spiral further, Todd took the lead, guiding me down a quieter path toward a back exit, only accessible to staff and official guests of the event.

The hallway beyond was deserted, the faint smell of industrial cleaner lingering in the air, trying but failing to mask the stale scent of sweat and bodies from the main hall.

The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, but even in their glare, I felt the most relaxed I’d been since we arrived.

“Here,” Todd said, his voice breaking through the haze in my mind.

I hadn’t realized I’d closed my eyes until I opened them to see him holding out a wet tissue. I glanced at him, puzzled.

“Wouldn’t want people confusing you with the concession stand,” Todd teased, nodding at the mustard stain on my shoulder.

Ugh.

“Thanks,” I muttered, snatching the tissue and scrubbing at the stain.

No matter how much I scrubbed, the stain seemed to sink deeper into the fabric.

Frustration welled up inside me. I knew it wasn’t just about the mustard, or my hunger, or even the convention.

This feeling had been brewing for months—ever since I’d received that private message from one of my fans after streaming a game.

“I can’t wait to finally meet you at GamesCon.”

They’d been a longtime follower, one of the first, even. Back when I was still a nobody, they’d kept up with every move in my career.

At first, it seemed harmless—just the usual comments. But over the past year, their messages started to change, getting way too personal.

It wasn’t just “Great stream!” anymore.

Now, it was things like, “I knew you’d pick that character,” or, “I noticed you were tired—hope you’re getting enough rest.”

Even more disturbing were the times they brought up small, almost private details.

Once, I mentioned offhand that sea salt chips were my favorite snack.

Months later, they’d sent a message: “I saw you had your usual snack after that tough stream. Guess you were craving those sea salt chips again, huh?” Or the time they commented, “I love when you brush your hair back like that when you’re stressed. It’s so you.”

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