Courtney Morton had the kind of presence people noticed even when she wasn't trying. At five foot nine, with long chestnut hair that caught the light no matter how dull the room was, she looked effortless in a way that cameras loved.
Strangers online called her model-pretty, the kind of beautiful that felt unreal through a screen. It was part of why she started vlogging in the first place, because people paid attention faster when she was in the frame.
Because views came easier when her face was visible. She learned quickly that the camera lingered on her the same way people did, and for a while, she let that be enough.
'If they're going to look anyway, I might as well control what they see.
She leaned back in her chair and tapped her phone against her palm, scrolling through the flood of notifications.
She had learned long ago to ignore the obsession, to treat it like background noise. But tonight… tonight was different.
"Wow," she muttered, half to herself, voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers hovered over the screen as she scrolled, disbelief twisting in her chest.
"Two thousand new likes… just like that. While I was filming that dumb TikTok challenge?"
The numbers glimmered on her phone like tiny, blinking warnings, impossible and sudden. Her heart thudded in her ears, a mix of thrill and unease.
'That's… too fast. Way too fast.' She could almost feel the attention pressing in around her, the way it had felt during Tyler's last post, and for the first time, the excitement that usually followed a viral spike was laced with a sharp, familiar dread.
Her roommate, Jenna, peeked over the side of the couch, tossing a handful of popcorn into her mouth.
"You're never going to sleep at this rate," Jenna teased. "You're addicted, I swear."
Courtney shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe I just… pay attention to the numbers. It's the only way to know if I'm any good at this."
Jenna laughed, but Courtney wasn't joking. She had started her channel three years ago, posting small lifestyle vlogs from her cramped apartment.
At first, it was just a way to vent after college, to share the "organized chaos" of her life with friends, half-finished crafts, messy corners, coffee-stained notebooks, and the little daily disasters that made her feel human. But something unexpected happened: people liked it.
Not just politely liked it, but really liked it. Views climbed, comments popped up, strangers started sharing their own little disasters with her.
It was the first time Courtney realized that ordinary life could feel extraordinary when someone was watching and that she could thrive in that attention.
And so she learned the rhythm of content creation:
Film. Post. Refresh. Watch the numbers rise.
Engage. Respond. Curate. Repeat.
It had started as fun, then as habit, then, somewhere along the way… as a necessity. Courtney Morton couldn't stop now, even if she wanted to.
At first, she told herself it didn't matter, likes were just numbers, comments just passing words but the truth was harder to ignore.
Every new view made her heart skip, every notification brought a little rush, a little thrill that she hadn't felt before.
'It's just feedback,' she would tell herself, 'just a way to know people are paying attention.'
But then she started timing her posts, editing for maximum engagement, refreshing her phone while waiting for the numbers to climb.
What had begun as a casual escape became a quiet obsession.
She noticed the difference between posts that flopped and posts that soared, learned the subtle tricks that made people click, like, share.
And every time the numbers ticked higher, she felt a surge of validation and a deeper, almost terrifying awareness of just how visible she was.
Before she knew it, it wasn't just a hobby anymore. It was a game. A puzzle. A mirror that reflected not only who she was, but how the world chose to see her.
And somewhere between chasing relevance and chasing attention, she realized she couldn't stop, not without losing herself entirely.
A ping made her jump. Her phone displayed a message notification from Christopher Reynolds.
Christopher: "You up? Check this."
Courtney opened it. A short video, shaky in the corner, but perfectly framed. It showed a creator named Tyler Brooks, one of the big names in their circle, collapsing mid-stream, his smile frozen, the chat exploding in confusion.
Courtney's stomach dropped.
"Jenna," she whispered, showing her the phone. "Look at this. Tyler… he's dead."
Jenna's jaw dropped. "Wait… what? That's… no way. That's not real."
"I know it's real," Courtney said. Her fingers were trembling. She had seen Tyler live-stream just yesterday, joking about how close he was to hitting a thousand likes on his latest post.
The door creaked, and Christopher Reynolds stepped in, carrying his camera like it was a shield. He was tall, lean, with dark hair that always fell into his eyes.
His expression was serious, almost rigid, different from the sarcastic persona he put online.
"I know what you're thinking," he said, glancing at Courtney's phone.
"But it's true. Tyler's dead. Heart failure, sudden. Officially. But…" He paused, voice low, almost conspiratorial. "There's a pattern."
Courtney's brow furrowed. "Pattern?"
Christopher leaned back against the doorframe. "You know how every one of us is obsessed with numbers, likes, views, engagement?
Well… Tyler hit a thousand likes on his last post before he died. And he's not the first. He's just the first we noticed."
Jenna snorted nervously. "You're joking. That's… that's insane. It's just coincidence."
Christopher's expression hardened. "Coincidence is comforting until it kills you."
Courtney's mind raced. She thought of her other friends, other creators, people she had collaborated with, laughed with, watched obsess over analytics.
Some of them had disappeared mysteriously, some burned out, and some had accidents.
She had chalked it up to the pressures of online fame. But now…
Her phone buzzed again. Notifications pouring in from her latest post, which had just hit nine hundred ninety-eight likes.
Courtney swallowed hard.
Jenna leaned closer. "You're not… you're not thinking about that number, are you?"
"I… I have to," Courtney said, her voice barely above a whisper. She stared at the screen as the numbers climbed. Nine hundred ninety-nine.
"Don't… don't do this to yourself," Jenna said.
Courtney ignored her. The last comment popped up.
Comment: "Wow… one more like and it's perfect!"
Her thumb hovered over the refresh button. One thousand.
Christopher's eyes were dark. "Courtney… don't look away."
The screen ticked up.
1,000 likes.
Courtney felt a chill creep along her spine, an icy whisper of dread she couldn't name.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew this was just the beginning.
And whatever was watching… was patient.