I scroll. 
          A ‘Happy Birthday’ graphic appears on my phone as I walk home in downtown Chicago.
Boring.
          I scroll.
          A woman with thick glasses, sitting at her laptop in a coffee shop. A working woman? The algorithm messed that up. 
          I scroll.
          “I didn’t forget our anniversary, I promise.”
          My thumb freezes over my phone screen as a familiar middle-aged couple stands in front of their ever-recording doorbell. The Leonard’s showed up on my screen a few times, touting the joys of marriage. The algorithm loves when people fight. I glance at the viewers in the corner of the screen: one-hundred-thousand viewers—and rising. Lucky bastards.
          A car whizzes by as I shake my head and look at my own viewer count: five hundred. My shoulders sink, despite the fact that my commute from work never got the most views. With a quick glance, looking past others walking home from work, I note the cameras lining the city streets like streetlights. They were new, installed about five years ago with top-of-the-line face recognition software, so no one went without a live stream. I positioned my body on the sidewalk for a better angle.
          I scroll. I scroll. I scroll. Past the live dash cams, streams, and the—
          My own living room appears on the screen. I pause and a woman stumbles to avoid running into me. The video is from the camera in the corner of the room installed as a permanent, twenty-four-seven stream. Because it’s easier to cut content out, as opposed to adding it in.
          But I’m not home. It’s not my feed—it’s my boyfriend’s.
          And Liam is there, on the couch, with a half–naked blond woman on top of him. 
          I freeze, gripping the phone tighter as my focus locks on the screen, and my viewer count jumps from five hundred to two thousand. My eyes widen. People know. People are watching Liam and waiting to see my reaction. But I’m standing in the middle of a sidewalk in downtown Chicago, people surrounding me on all sides, some even running into me.
          I bite my bottom lip, fire building up inside me. I have to run home and confront my boyfriend for the pig he is. People would rather see a full-blown fight instead of a conversation. I have to feed the algorithm and get people on my side. 
          Not wasting precious time as my follower count steadily increases, I break into a sprint. Hell, I even knock a few people over for good measure. I have to put on a good show, and I might as well gather as many viewers as I can.
          I glance at my phone: fifty thousand.
          A smile breaks over my face as the fire in my stomach feeds into my chest. This might be what pushes me over the top to get me to a million viewers. But I push the smile off my face. God help me if anyone sees me smile right now.
          I override the street cameras and go live, holding the phone to my face. “Are you seeing this? My boyfriend forgot about the live steam camera. What a freaking idiot. Should I kill him?” With a few taps, I created a poll, giving my viewers the option of ‘Kill’ and ‘Forgive.’ The algorithm loves engagement.
          By the time I burst into my apartment, ‘Kill’ is in the lead by seventy percent, with over three-hundred thousand people watching. Hah, God bless the algorithm.
          Liam and his half-naked friend jump up from the couch as the door slams against the wall, denting it. His eyes widen, glancing at the camera in the corner. Did he forget it’s there? What a damn oversight. But excitement fills my chest in place of any jealousy.
          Before I say anything, I prop my phone up on the stand in the living room, framing my boyfriend and the harlot perfectly. ‘Kill’ jumps up to eighty percent as I snap toward them, careful not to cover their expressions with my body.
          “You bastard.” I grab a vase off the shelf and break it. The green glass shatters and clinks as pieces fall to the floor, and I wield the largest shard of glass in his direction, the light reflecting off it. Without thinking, I throw it at him. I fully intend for it to miss him, but the glass wedges into his chest, blood seeping into his gray t-shirt. My eyes widen as I rock back to my heels, and Liam looks down at his chest in shock.
          The woman screams as she covers herself with her hands, just enough to be safe from any child-blockers but not enough to not catch attention. I finally look at her face, framed by blonde curls.
          Zoe Conrad.
          The biggest lifestyle influencer on the Internet, known for pushing her limits in every way possible while owning her independence and taking what she wants. Heat rises in my chest, too star-stricken to move—aside from my trembling hands.
          “Liam.” I shake my head, looking between the two of them as Zoe slips on a thin white t-shirt. “What—”
          He grips his chest and narrows his eyes, taking a step toward me. With unsteady hands, he rotates my shoulders, blood sticking to my jean jacket, and faces me toward my phone.
          “Happy birthday.” Liam’s grip tightens as his body sways.
          I put my hand over my mouth as the number in the corner ticks up: a million viewers. My jaw drops. A million. A smile plays on my lips. Did Liam—
          Liam collapses. With a gasp, I tilt my phone down, framing Liam’s body on the screen. A red smear grows on his t-shirt.
          Keeping my phone in its stand, I rush to pick up Liam’s, my wooden floor creaking beneath my feet.
          Zoe talks behind me, “Y’all will not believe what is happening right now.”
          With my eyes glued on Liam’s phone, I’m bombarded with my own face, videos already replaying the attack from different angles. Live streams of people’s opinions and thoughts and speculations. 
          And I scroll.