Page 3 of Heat Clickbait
Oh no.
Oh fuck.
This was not part of the plan.
CHAPTER TWO
Nova
The industrial-strength Earl Grey I'd been nursing for the past hour had long since gone cold, but I kept the porcelain cup pressed against my palm anyway, letting the residual warmth ground me as I watched Crash bounce in his chair like a caffeinated hummingbird on amphetamines. We'd been at this Creator Speed Dating event for exactly seventeen minutes and thirty-two seconds — I'd been tracking because time management was crucial for these networking opportunities — and he'd already consumed three different brands of energy drinks (comparing flavor profiles loudly enough for neighboring tables to hear), broken a pen while gesticulating about camera angles, and somehow gotten glitter in his hair despite there being no visible glitter anywhere in the sterile conference room.
The convention center's industrial carpet muffled most sounds, but the nervous energy radiating from dozens of creators created its own kind of white noise. There were fingers drumming on tables, hushed conversations about subscriber counts, the occasional nervous laugh pitched too high.
"Would you please sit still?" I murmured, not looking up from the neat grid I'd drawn on my evaluation sheet. Eachpotential collaborator would get their own box with carefully measured metrics for audience overlap, content synergy, brand alignment, and biological compatibility. Not that the last one mattered, of course. We weren't here for that. The geometric precision of my notes provided a comforting structure to what was essentially organized chaos masquerading as professional networking.
"Can't help it, boss." Crash's leg bounced hard enough to vibrate our entire table, making my tea cup rattle against its saucer. "The energy in here is absolutely mental. All these Omegas trying so hard to smell available while simultaneously broadcasting 'please don't approach me' vibes, and the Alphas are practically pissing on furniture to mark territory. It's like watching a nature documentary but everyone's wearing designer clothes and lying about their follower counts on their business cards."
I glanced around the room, noting the truth in his observations. Two tables over, an Alpha pack I recognized from fitness content was clearly scent-marking their chairs. Near the refreshment station, three separate Omega creators clustered together for safety while darting nervous glances at the larger packs. The artificial lighting washed everything in harsh fluorescents that made everyone look slightly sickly, which probably wasn't helping anyone's confidence.
Ghost typed something on his phone and slid it across the table to me, the motion so smooth it barely disturbed the carefully arranged packets of information we'd prepared:
He's not wrong. Two Alphas almost fought over table positioning earlier. Had to be separated by security.
"Barbaric," I said, adjusting my glasses and making another precise note in my planner. "Though I suppose we should be grateful for the content potential. Drama drives engagement, and if nothing else, this entire experience will provide material for at least three podcast episodes about the current state of creator culture."
Milo pressed a homemade protein bar into my hand, still warm and smelling of honey and cinnamon with notes of vanilla that made my stomach remind me I'd been surviving on caffeine and determination. The texture was perfect — not too dense, not too sweet — because Milo never did anything half-heartedly.
"You didn't eat breakfast," he said, that particular note of gentle concern in his voice that meant he'd already meal-prepped my lunches for the next week in retaliation. "Again."
"I had tea," I replied automatically, though we both knew it was a weak defense.
"Tea isn't food, Nova." His warm brown eyes held that mix of affection and exasperation I knew too well. "I made these at four AM when I couldn't sleep. Anxiety baking, but nutritionally balanced. I researched the optimal protein-to-carb ratio for sustained energy during networking events."
I took a bite to appease him, the perfectly balanced flavors making me close my eyes for just a moment. Milo's stress-baking had reached new heights since we'd decided to look for an Omega collaborator. This morning alone, I'd found fresh croissants still warm from the oven, two types of muffins (banana chocolate chip and lemon poppy seed), and enough energy bars to feed a small army stashed throughout our hotel suite. His way of caring, of trying to control the uncontrollable through feeding people.
"Where's Blitz?" I checked my phone, noting we had exactly three minutes before rotations began. Punctuality was crucial for making good impressions.
"Charming the GameGrind pack into a collaboration for next month's charity stream." Milo nodded toward the registration table where Blitz was indeed surrounded by a cluster of smaller creators, his golden skin practically glowing under the convention center's harsh fluorescents as he laughed at something one of them said. Even from across the room, his presence drew eyes like a magnet, the way he gestured with his whole body, the genuine warmth in his expression that couldn't be faked. "He's promising them exposure to our audience in exchange for participation. Smart move, actually."
"Of course he is." I made a note in my planner to review whatever he'd just promised before contracts were signed. Blitz's enthusiasm for collaboration occasionally exceeded his calendar's capacity for actual hours, and I'd learned to double-check his commitments before they became scheduling nightmares.
The headset-wearing Beta coordinator appeared at our table with her nuclear-powered smile and clipboard, radiating the kind of manic energy that suggested she'd consumed even more caffeine than Crash. Her name tag read "JENNY" in aggressive capital letters decorated with small rainbows.
"Bond Pack! So excited you're participating! Your table is number eleven, and you'll be meeting eight Omega creators today. Three-minute intervals with five minutes between for notes and rotation. We've had absolutely zero incidents so far, which is a record for these events!"
"Delightful," I said with practiced charm that had been drilled into me at Mother's dinner parties since age five, the kind of polite enthusiasm that could mean anything and committed to nothing. "We're looking forward to exploring meaningful collaboration opportunities."
She giggled, actually giggled, and scurried away to harass the next table with the same manic energy.
"Collaboration opportunities," Crash mimicked in a terrible approximation of my accent, pitching his voice higher and adding unnecessary syllables. "Mate, you sound like a LinkedIn post gained sentience and decided to attend a networking mixer."
Ghost's shoulders shook silently, the only indication he found anything amusing. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners, and I caught the barest hint of a smile before he schooled his expression back to neutral.
"We are here for collaboration," I reminded them, pulling out my tablet to review the participant list one more time. The profiles were disappointingly brief, listing only the creator's streaming focus, subscriber counts, and basic demographic information. Nothing about personality or creative vision. "The pack's growth has plateaued at 2.8 million collective subscribers. We need fresh content angles to break through to the next tier, and market research suggests that pack dynamics content is trending upward. An Omega perspective on modern pack structures could be exactly what differentiates us from every other Alpha pack playing video games and working out on stream."
"Right." Crash's grin turned wicked, the kind of expression that usually preceded him saying something calculated to get under my skin. "Nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that we spent eighteen months and roughly the GDP of a small country building that perfect nest room that's just sitting there empty, collecting dust and making us all feel like failures at basic pack dynamics."
The nest.
