The symphony of digital panic was a physical presence in the room, a wall of sound pressing in on her from all sides. Millie sat frozen on the floor, her back against the cool wall, knees pulled to her chest. The phone at her feet continued its frantic dance, each vibration a tiny, seismic event of pure anxiety. The monitor glowed like the eye of some angry god, the inbox number now a horrifying "999+" that seemed to mock her.
'I'm gonna be sick.' Her breath hitched, a dry, ragged sound in the oppressive noise. This wasn't fame. This was a targeted fucking strike. She'd launched a firework and accidentally hit the Pentagon.
These weren't fans; these were corporations, lawyers, fucking Hollywood legends. They'd eat her alive. They'd sue her for existing, tie her up in legal bullshit until she was a dried-out husk.
"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," she whispered, the words tasting like ash. She buried her face in her knees. How the hell was she supposed to handle this? Her entire management team was her cat, Mr. Whiskers, and he was currently giving zero fucks, fast asleep on her pillow.
The phone vibrated again, skittering closer to her foot. The caller ID flashed: xXEmiliyXx.
Emily. Sael's sister. The one who'd set this whole insane thing up. A jolt of desperate hope shot through her. She fumbled for the phone, her sweaty fingers almost dropping it twice before she managed to hit the answer button.
"Emily?" Her voice was a cracked, pathetic thing.
"[Millie? Holy shit, your Chirper is blowing the fuck up! I saw the announcement, it was perfect! The comments are going insane! This is—]".
"Emily, they're all emailing me!" Millie blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in a rush of panic. "Everyone! Thundra Corp. A.E. Games... I shit you not, fucking Martin Berg! My inbox is a warzone! What the hell did I sign up for? This is… this is a nightmare!"
There was a pause on the other end. Millie could practically hear the gears turning in Emily's head. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its excited edge and was now calm, sharp, and utterly in control.
"[Okay. Breathe. Stop fucking hyperventilating. Listen to me,]" Emily said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "[This is not a nightmare…. This is a power-up. Like a god-mode. You're holding the keys to the castle everyone wants into, and you're sitting on the floor crying about it… just relax..]".
"But they're going to sue me! Or… or blacklist me! Or—"
"[Or nothing,]" Emily cut her off, her voice a cool blade. "[They can't do shit. What are they gonna do, sue you for being chosen? For having a pair of tits and a voice that Sael liked? They want access... And right now, you're the only door. So, you set the fucking rules.]"
Millie took a shuddering breath. "How? They're… they're them. I'm just me."
"[Here's what you do. It's simple. You ignore every single one of those emails. You don't open them. You don't read that legal scare-tactic bullshit. You just… let them marinate in their own desperation.]"
"Ignore them? Emily, they'll—"
"[Or,]" Emily continued, as if she hadn't spoken, "[you send one email back. One. A blanket reply. You kill-copy every single one of those fancy-pants senders and you give them the same. Exact. Message.]"
Millie could hear the smirk in Emily's voice. "[You tell them that all inquiries regarding the collaboration will be addressed publicly on the upcoming live stream… You give them the date and time. You tell them that Sael VT will be taking questions live.... And then you tell them to have a real fuckin' nice day… don't worry about it, Sael already said it's okay to do just that…]"
The plan was so audacious, so brilliantly simple, that it cut through Millie's panic like a laser. She wasn't a victim; she was a bouncer. And the line to get into this club stretched around the world.
"You're… you're a genius, Emily."
"[I know. Now get your fine ass off the floor and start copy-pasting. And for god's sake, change your email notification sound…. That shit is annoying.]"
Click. The line went dead. Silence descended once more, but this time it was a different kind of silence. It was the quiet of a battlefield after a general has given the order. The fear was still there, buzzing in the background, but it was now overshadowed by a thrumming, electric sense of power. She stood up, her legs feeling steadier. She looked at the screeching monitor not as a monster, but as a list of names waiting to be put in their place.
A slow, wicked grin spread across her face. "Alright, you fuckers," she muttered to the empty room. "Let's dance."
Back in her chair, the leather creaking beneath her, Millie's fingers flew across the keyboard with a new purpose. The frantic clack-clack-clack was now the sound of artillery fire. She drafted the email, each word filled with a casual, dismissive power that made her want to cackle.
Subject: Re: Your Inquiry
Body: Thank you for your interest in the upcoming collaboration between Millie Kyleish and Sael VT. All official questions and comments will be addressed during our live stream on [Date & Time]. Please direct your attention to my MeTuber channel for the broadcast: [Link]. We look forward to your viewership.
Best,
Millie Kyleish
She highlighted the entire intimidating list of senders—CEOs, PR departments, personal assistants to the stars—and pasted them all into the BCC field. It was the ultimate digital power move; they'd all get the same impersonal reply, and none of them would know who else was on the list. She took a deep, theatrical breath and hit SEND.
Whoosh.
The sound was immensely satisfying. It was the sound of a trap door slamming shut. "Click."
*******************
Across the city, in the sterile, air-conditioned silence of Thundra Corp.'s executive communications office, an analyst stared at his screen. The reply had come in. He'd been instructed to watch for this. He opened it, his eyes scanning the bland, corporate-friendly text. His shoulders slumped.
"Well, shit," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "She's funneling everything to the public stream. It's a blanket statement."
He picked up the direct line to his department head. "Sir? The Kyleish woman responded. It's a stonewall. A polite, professional, 'go fuck yourself.' We're not getting a private audience… We're going to have to wait for the live stream with everyone else.".
A long, weary sigh came through the receiver. "Understood. Monitor the situation. Have the social media team ready to dissect every word during the broadcast… And for god's sake, don't try to contact her again. We can't afford to look like we're pressuring her."
Click. The line went dead. The strategy had failed. The anonymous, elusive Meteor Studio had once again proven untouchable, using a relatively unknown streamer as their perfect, impenetrable shield. All they could do now was wait, and watch.
In a nearly identical office on the other side of the digital world, a NetTrouble liaison received the exact same email. She read it twice; a frown etched on her face. She'd been so sure a direct, generous offer of a development partnership would at least get a conversation started. This was a cold, hard rejection.
She forwarded the email to her superior with a single-line note: `"As anticipated. The shield is up."`
The reply came back a moment later: `"The geniuses are being peculiar. Do not escalate. We wait."`
The sentiment echoed through boardrooms and executive suites across the globe. The collective corporate intelligence, after the initial shock, had reached a universal consensus. Millie Kyleish wasn't acting alone. This flawless, unified, and utterly impersonal response strategy *had* to be the work of Meteor Studio themselves. They were puppeteering this from the shadows.
The mythos solidified. Meteor Studio wasn't just a group of talented developers; they were strategic masterminds. They were anonymous for a reason. They controlled the narrative with an iron fist. They had turned a potential PR disaster into a masterclass in hype generation, making the entire industry jump through hoops on their schedule.
Trying to go around them, to pressure their chosen mouthpiece, was not just futile—it was dangerous. Geniuses, especially the reclusive, pissed-off kind, were unpredictable. They could vanish as quickly as they appeared, taking their world-changing ideas with them. And no corporation wanted to be the one that scared them off.
So, they all did the same thing. They stopped typing. They closed the email tabs. They leaned back in their expensive chairs. And they waited.