[POV: Maya Chen - Trends Analyst, Wetube HQ]
Maya Chen had worked in Wetube's Content Discovery department for three years, and honestly? Most of the job was boring.
Her role was simple in theory: watch newly posted videos, identify the ones with viral potential, and forward them to the homepage recommendations. In practice? It meant spending eight hours a day watching mediocre content, cringeworthy clickbait, and occasionally something that made her eyes bleed.
It was 10:37 AM on a Sunday, and Maya was on her fifth cup of coffee, scrolling through her queue of new videos.
"YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT THIS GUY DID!!!" - No, thank you. Skip.
"10,000 Calorie Mukbang Challenge" - Maya grimaced. Definitely not. Skip.
"My Girlfriend Left Me (EMOTIONAL)" - Please. Skip.
She was about to close the browser and take an early lunch break when a thumbnail caught her eye.
It wasn't flashy. It didn't have screaming capital letters or exaggerated facial expressions. Just a girl with her eyes closed, tears visible on her cheeks, against a simple dark background.
The title: "Someone Like You - Cass Echo (Original Song)"
Something about the image was… different. Raw. Real.
Maya clicked, half-expecting another off-key cover of some popular song.
The screen went black for a moment.
And then the video began.
The first sound was the piano—soft, melancholic, each note falling like a teardrop into still water. The production quality was immediately obvious. This wasn't recorded in a bedroom with a phone. It was professional.
The camera opened on a close-up of the girl's face. Her eyes were closed, her features at rest, almost serene. The lighting created a soft glow around her, as if she were in a dream—or perhaps a melancholic nightmare.
When her eyes opened, there was a depth in them that Maya didn't expect. Not the performative depth of someone faking emotion for views. But something genuine. Vulnerable.
And then she started to sing.
Maya had heard thousands of voices. Professional singers. Talented amateurs. Auto-tuned to death. But this voice…
There was something about it that immediately grabbed her attention. It wasn't just technically impressive—though it definitely was. It was the quality of the voice. As if every word carried real emotional weight. As if the singer wasn't just performing the lyrics, but living them.
The first verse spoke about hearing that someone had moved on, found someone else, built a life without you. The girl's voice—Cass Echo, apparently—delivered each line with a mixture of pain and acceptance that made Maya's chest tighten.
The camera cut to a different angle, a medium shot showing the singer's posture. She was sitting simply in a chair, no elaborate movements, no choreography. Just her and the raw emotion in her voice.
The chorus arrived, and Cass's voice rose, completely filling the soundscape. Not shouting, not straining—just… full. Rich. Resonant in a way that made the hairs on Maya's arm stand up.
The lyrics spoke about never minding, about finding someone like you, about wishes that sometimes love lasted but recognizing when it didn't.
Maya realized she had stopped breathing.
The editing was impeccable—smooth cuts between angles, color grading that gave everything a melancholic blue tint, perfectly timed close-ups during the most intense emotional moments.
In the second verse, tears began to stream down Cass's face. Not dramatically. Just… happening. As if she couldn't hold them back even if she tried.
And somehow, that made it all more powerful.
Because it didn't seem performative. It seemed real.
The bridge arrived—the most vulnerable part of the song, where the lyrics talked about showing up uninvited, remembering how things used to be. Cass's voice broke slightly—not technically, but emotionally—and Maya felt her own throat tighten.
When was the last time a video made me feel something? Maya thought vaguely, her own eyes beginning to burn.
The final chorus built, Cass's voice pouring years of hurt and hope and painful acceptance into every note. Her voice echoed through Maya's headphones, filling not just her ears but somehow her entire chest, her entire heart.
The last note was sustained—long, crystalline, vibrant—before gently fading into silence.
The video faded to black.
Maya realized there were tears streaming down her own face.
"What the hell was that?" she whispered, quickly wiping her eyes.
She looked at the video's stats:
Posted: 14 hours ago
Views: 247
Likes: 89
Comments: 12
Creator: Cass Echo (15 subscribers)
Two hundred and forty-seven views. In fourteen hours. For something of that quality.
The algorithm had completely failed to recognize this.
Maya checked the creator's account. Cass Echo. Brand new account. This was the only video. No history, no established presence.
She went back and watched it again. And then a third time.
Each time, she noticed new details. The way Cass's breathing was perfectly controlled, allowing for long holds without effort. The way certain words were emphasized, giving them extra weight. The subtle lighting that shifted almost imperceptibly during the song, darkening during the darker parts, easing up during the moments of acceptance.
This was professional work. This was art.
And it had two hundred and forty-seven views.
Maya stood up from her desk and walked quickly through the cubicles to her supervisor's office.
She knocked on the glass door. "James? Do you have a minute?"
James Park looked up from his monitor, his thick-rimmed glasses slipping slightly down his nose. "Maya. What's up? You look… were you crying?"
"I need to show you something," Maya said, entering without waiting for permission. She pulled out her phone, opening the video. "Just… just watch. Please."
James looked skeptical—he'd seen Maya get excited about content before that wasn't quite as good as she thought. But he took the headphones she offered and pressed play.
Maya watched his face as the video played.
First, just polite attention. Then, growing interest. His eyes widened slightly when Cass started singing. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
At the bridge, when Cass started crying, James grabbed a tissue from the box on his desk.
When the video ended, he sat in silence for a long moment.
"How many views does this have?" he finally asked, his voice slightly hoarse.
"Two hundred and fifty now," Maya said. "It was posted last night. Completely new creator. No fanbase. The algorithm didn't pick it up."
James watched it again. Maya saw his expression change from skeptical to impressed to genuinely excited.
"This is…" he began, then stopped. "This is extraordinary. The production quality alone is professional level. But the voice? The emotion?" He shook his head. "We don't see this every day."
"I know," Maya said. "That's why I came to you. This needs to be on the Recommended list."
James leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping thoughtfully on his desk.
The "Recommended" section was the most coveted spot on Wetube—five manually selected videos that appeared on the main page for every user who visited the site. Each video stayed there for a full month, guaranteeing massive exposure. It was essentially a golden ticket to virality.
But James couldn't just put anything there. He had to justify his choices to the higher-ups. And if a video performed poorly, it was his neck on the line.
"The last Recommended rotation ends tomorrow," James said slowly. "We were planning to add that fusion cooking video, the documentary on climate change, maybe that funny animal compilation…"
"James," Maya said firmly. "This is going to go viral. I know it will. Look at the comments."
She showed him her phone. The twelve comments were all variations on the same theme:
"Why doesn't this have more views??? This is incredible!"
"I'm crying. This voice is beautiful."
"Wetube algorithm is broken because HOW is this not everywhere??"
"Who is Cass Echo and why am I just discovering her???"
James read them, his expression thoughtful.
"The engagement rate is insanely high," Maya pressed. "Almost half the people who watched left a like or comment. That's like… five times the normal rate."
Finally, James nodded.
"Okay," he said. "Put it on the Recommended list. Slot three—between the food video and the documentary. If it goes viral like you think, three days will be enough for us to see traction."
"Three days?" Maya protested. "James, this deserves the full month—"
"Three days to start," James said firmly. "If it performs well, we extend. But I can't justify giving a full month slot to a completely unknown creator without performance data first." He paused. "Even if she is incredibly talented."
It was the best Maya was going to get.
"Okay," she said. "Three days. But when this blows up, I want official recognition for finding it."
James laughed. "If this blows up like you think, you'll get more than recognition. You might get a bonus."
Maya smiled and went back to her desk, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she added Cass Echo's video to the next Recommended cycle.
Set to go live at midnight.
In less than twelve hours, millions of people would see that thumbnail on their homepage.
And then?
Then the world would discover Cass Echo.
---
[POV: Cassandra]
I was having the weirdest dream about trying to sing while eating a chicken cheese tornado when a loud, annoying sound started piercing my consciousness.
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
My phone.
"Mnghh," I grunted intelligently, my face buried in the pillow. "Go away."
The phone ignored my polite request and continued vibrating violently on the nightstand.
I reached an arm out blindly, fingers groping until they finally found the phone. I brought it close to my face, blinking against the screen light.
Marcus Calling
It was… what time was it? I looked at the clock. 7:43 AM.
In the morning.
On a Sunday.
"This had better be good," I muttered, answering. "Hello?" My voice came out hoarse and clearly asleep.
"CASSANDRA!" Marcus's voice exploded through the speaker, so loud and high-pitched I almost dropped the phone. "HAVE YOU SEEN IT? HAVE YOU SEEN THE VIDEO?"
I pulled the phone away from my ear, wincing. "Marcus, it's seven in the morning. And yes, I saw the video. I posted it last night, remember? It had like… six views."
I coughed slightly, remembering with embarrassment how half of those were my own obsessive refreshing. "Six completely different people," I added quickly. "Very… different. Diverse, even."
"What? No!" Marcus sounded genuinely confused. "No, I'm not talking about last night! I'm talking about now! You're on the RECOMMENDED list!"
I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes. "On the… what?"
"The RECOMMENDED list!" Marcus was practically screaming now. "On Wetube! You know, the five videos that appear on the main page for everyone? The most coveted spot on the entire platform??"
I blinked, my brain still foggy with sleep trying to process. "Wait, wait. Back up. Explain like I'm a stupid person who just woke up. What exactly are the Recommended videos?"
I could hear Marcus taking a deep breath, clearly trying to calm down enough to explain properly.
"Okay," he said, his voice still excited but more controlled. "So Wetube has this thing called the Recommended list. It's five videos that are chosen manually by the Wetube staff—not by the algorithm, but by real people who work there—and put on the main page. Literally every user who visits Wetube sees these five videos first, no matter what. They run for a month, or sometimes less if the video really takes off quickly."
"Okay…" I said slowly, waking up more now.
"It's EXTREMELY rare for videos from new creators to get there," Marcus continued. "Like, maybe happens five times a year? It's usually content from established creators, or stuff with huge production budgets, or perfect timing with current events. But you—you with your literally one-day-old account—somehow made it."
My heart was starting to beat faster. "And that means…"
"That means," Marcus said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, "that potentially millions of people are going to see your video. Like, many millions. In the next few days. Maybe hours."
I sat there, processing that.
Millions.
Millions.
"I… don't know what to say," I finally managed.
"Say you're going to open Wetube and see for yourself," Marcus said. "Seriously, go look. Then call me back. I need to vicariously experience your reaction because I already freaked out when I saw it and now I need you freaking out too."
"Okay," I said, still somewhat dazed. "I'll… I'll look."
"Call me back!" Marcus ordered, and hung up.
I sat there for a moment, just holding the phone, my brain still trying to catch up.
Then, with slightly trembling fingers, I opened the browser on my phone and typed in the Wetube URL.
The page loaded.
And there, at the top, in a large, impossible-to-miss section labeled "RECOMMENDED FOR YOU", were five thumbnails.
The first was of a kitten sucking on a baby bottle.
"Aww."
The second was a documentary about ocean conservation.
The third was my video.
My video.
Right there. On the main page of Wetube. Where literally anyone who visited the site would see it.
I clicked on it with trembling hands.
The video page loaded.
And then I saw it.
Views: 127,438
One hundred and twenty-seven thousand.
One hundred and twenty-seven thousand.
In less than twenty-four hours.
"Oh my God," I whispered.
I watched the number change in real time. 127,439. 127,440. 127,441.
It was growing every second.
Likes: 43,829
Comments: 1,247
Shares: 2,891
My fingers, practically moving on their own now, navigated to the creator login page.
I entered my credentials with hands shaking so hard I got the password wrong twice.
I finally managed to log in.
And the moment the page loaded, my phone exploded.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Notifications started appearing so fast I could barely read them.
"NewSubscriber47 subscribed to your channel"
"MusicLover892 liked your video"
"JennaK commented: 'This is beautiful omg'"
"PlaylistQueen added your video to a playlist"
"TomH subscribed to your channel"
"ClaraMusic liked your video"
They kept coming. Dozens. Hundreds. Scrolling across the screen so fast they became a blur.
My phone started getting warm in my hand.
The screen started flickering.
"No no no," I said, frantically pressing buttons, trying to close the app. "Don't do this, please don't—"
The screen froze.
For a second, it was stuck on a static image of the notifications still scrolling.
And then the screen went black.
My phone had crashed.
Or shut down.
Or possibly died from notification overload.
I sat there in my bed, holding my dead phone, hair disheveled, still in teddy bear pajamas, with one hundred and twenty-seven thousand people having watched my video and the number growing every second.
I looked at the inert phone in my hand.
"Oops."