The night was electric even before Lottie touched the livestream button.
Her fingers hovered over her phone for a fraction longer than necessary, pulse thrumming in her ears, the cool glass of the screen damp against her fingertips. The faint glow from the display bathed her face in soft, pale light as she sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, knees brushing the edge of the desk, hair falling in soft waves over one shoulder. From the cracked window came the distant thrum of the school courtyard—Evelyn's event in full, pulsing swing, music thudding like a heartbeat through the night. The bassline rattled faintly against the windowpane, a steady, taunting pulse.
Lottie exhaled slowly, her breath fogging faintly against the chill seeping in through the gap. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, fingers trembling just slightly—not with fear, but with a sharp, buzzing anticipation that prickled up her arms, alive beneath her skin.
She pressed Go Live.
The comment stream erupted almost instantly.
"Whoa, she's live?"
"Lottie??"
"Is this… real?"
For half a heartbeat, her breath hitched. Then Lottie gave a small, almost self-conscious smile, the kind that lifted the corners of her mouth without fully reaching her eyes, and leaned toward the camera, the soft cotton of her sleeve brushing the edge of the desk. "Hey," she murmured, voice low, warm, edged with the faintest rasp of nerves. "Didn't plan this, but… thought we could have something a little different tonight."
A ripple of disbelief surged through the chat. Behind the camera, Leo sat cross-legged on the bed, laptop balanced on his knees, eyes flicking sharply over the flood of comments. His fingers danced across the keyboard, blocking spam, muting trolls, the glow of the screen reflected faintly in the dark gleam of his eyes. A slow grin tugged at his mouth as he glanced up at Lottie—half amusement, half something sharper, almost feral.
She adjusted the strap of her guitar, fingers grazing the smooth wood with a kind of quiet reverence. The air in the room shifted, the tremor in her pulse smoothing as she let her hands settle on the fretboard. With a quiet inhale, she struck the first chord.
The melody unfurled gently into the room, soft at first, hesitant—a whisper more than a sound. Her voice followed, threading through the music, tentative, as if she were singing just for herself. But the chat exploded.
"Holy crap, she can SING??"
"She's so… natural??"
"Wait, why is this better than Evelyn's entire campaign?"
Each note steadied her, the tightness in her chest loosening with every breath. Her eyes fluttered half closed, lashes casting delicate shadows against her cheeks as her fingers moved with practiced ease over the strings. This wasn't a performance, not in the glossy, polished way Evelyn would craft one—it was raw, unvarnished, bare. And as the viewer count ticked upward—fifty, a hundred, four hundred, eight hundred—Lottie felt something uncoil inside her, light and fierce.
The dim lamplight cast a pool of warmth across the floorboards, the walls holding the music close like a secret. Outside, Evelyn's event roared louder, the bassline rattling against the window as if trying to claw its way in. Lottie's lips curved faintly as she sang, her voice dipping lower, a caress of sound that sent a ripple through the chat.
Between songs, she paused, fingers hovering above the strings. Her gaze drifted to the chat window, a quiet smile flickering as she read.
"Didn't know you played."
"She's always been hiding in plain sight, huh?"
"THIS is what leadership looks like."
A breath of laughter slipped from her, light and disbelieving, before she ducked her head, fingers brushing over the back of her neck in a fleeting, self-conscious gesture. Leo leaned forward slightly, one elbow braced on his knee, mouth quirking into a grin. "You're murdering them out there," he murmured, voice pitched low for her alone. His hand brushed her shoulder lightly, the touch brief but grounding, and for a moment their eyes met—a flicker of understanding passing between them, sharp and bright.
The next segment unfolded without plan. Lottie set the guitar aside, fingers trailing over the worn wood, and reached for the old debate trophy tucked half-forgotten on her shelf. She cradled it lightly between her palms, the cool metal sending a shiver up her skin. "You asked about this earlier," she said softly, a quiet smile curving her lips. "I never thought it mattered. But maybe it does now."
She spoke of strategy, of challenges, of organizing small but meaningful change. Her voice was steady, thoughtful, the words coming not from a script but from memory, from experience etched into her skin. And the chat surged again.
"WHERE has she been hiding??"
"Evelyn's in trouble."
"Okay, but this is… kinda iconic."
Downstairs, faint through the floorboards, Lottie could hear the occasional burst of laughter, the clink of glassware, her parents moving between rooms as Evelyn's event played on the big screen. The dissonance—the sharp contrast between the polished spectacle below and her own quiet rebellion upstairs—sent a thrill down her spine, a pulse of exhilaration that set her fingers trembling anew.
A sharp knock at the door jolted her slightly. Leo shot to his feet, mouth quirking into a half-laugh as he waved her down. "Relax," he mouthed, slipping into the hallway. He returned a moment later, eyes glinting with mischief. "Just Amy, frantically texting from the courtyard. Evelyn's checking her phone every five seconds."
A soft laugh, almost a gasp, slipped from Lottie's lips. She pressed a hand briefly to her chest, feeling the thrum of her heartbeat against her palm. Her gaze drifted back to the chat, and the words blurred slightly, the flood of hearts and usernames cresting like a wave.
"I guess… thanks for listening," she murmured, voice threading rougher now with emotion, the edge of vulnerability crackling in the quiet. "I didn't know if anyone would."
The chat surged:
"Always."
"Here for this."
"Keep going."
Leo dropped back into the chair beside her, feet propped on the edge of the desk, eyes glinting. "You're scaring the queen," he murmured, his voice a mix of humor and something more protective, almost fierce.
Outside, Evelyn scrolled furiously through her phone, jaw tight, smile stretched brittle across her face as she posed for photo after photo. Amy hovered at her side, murmuring updates, her fingers tightening and loosening around the phone, eyes flicking toward the glowing viewer count on Lottie's stream.
"Control it," Evelyn hissed, the words barely audible beneath the thrum of music, fingers digging into her clutch as she waved at a cluster of students. "Post something. Divert them."
Amy's voice was faint, hesitant. "It's… not working," she whispered, eyes darting away.
Evelyn's nails bit into her palm, the delicate skin paling around her knuckles.
Back in Lottie's room, the air had thickened with quiet intensity. Her fingers hovered over the End Stream button, pulse skittering beneath her skin, but Leo leaned forward, voice a low murmur in her ear. "One more," he said softly, the words a quiet dare. "For the kill shot."
Lottie hesitated—just long enough to feel the tremble in her breath—then lifted the guitar again, fingers curling around the neck with a quiet surety that surprised even her.
Her voice this time was stronger, surer, the lyrics threading through the room like a current. The chat slowed, then stilled, comments fading into quiet as the audience simply… listened. Lottie felt it in her chest, in the rise and fall of her breath, in the faint burn behind her eyes: the rare, charged quiet of an audience caught wholly, breathlessly, in the moment.
Downstairs, the television blared, Evelyn's campaign video playing on a loop, all gleaming smiles and perfect angles. Upstairs, Lottie strummed the last chords into the hush, the glow of her screen casting her face in delicate gold.
As the final note faded, she exhaled softly, the sound trembling just slightly on the edge. A smile curved her mouth, small, shy, but real, and she raised two fingers in a brief, almost childlike wave. "Thank you," she whispered, voice slipping soft as a secret into the dark.
Her thumb hovered—and then, with a small breath, she ended the stream.
For a moment, the room was utterly still. Leo let out a long, slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair as he tipped his head back, a grin blooming slow and sharp across his face. "Hayes," he said, voice warm and edged with laughter, "you just walked in and flipped the whole damn board."
Lottie looked at him, breath hitching faintly in her chest. The tremble in her hands had faded, replaced by something steadier: the pulse of something alive and rising, curling bright and hot beneath her skin.
Her phone buzzed sharply on the desk. She picked it up, heartbeat spiking.
A new message.
Unknown Number: They're rattled. Be ready.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the phone, the words etching sharp into her mind like the first cut of a blade.
Outside, Evelyn's laugh rang thin and high across the courtyard, champagne flute raised, eyes scanning the crowd, the edges of her smile pulled tight. But her hand trembled just slightly at the rim, the liquid quivering faintly in its crystal prison.
And in Lottie's room, the air hummed with possibility, charged and trembling, as if the walls themselves could feel the moment shift.
Leo slumped back in the chair, feet propped lazily on the desk, watching her with a slow, knowing grin. "You have no idea," he murmured, voice a low rumble, "what you've just started."
Lottie turned her face slightly, eyes half-lidded, the corner of her mouth curving with quiet, devastating satisfaction.
"Oh," she whispered, soft as a blade slipping from its sheath, "I think I do."
And somewhere outside, in the noise and the light and the brittle laughter, Evelyn Hayes felt the first, cold breath of something she hadn't accounted for—something quiet, sharp, and rising.