Emil found a low concrete barrier at the edge of the parking lot and sat down on it, his ring light still on, his own stream technically still running. He didn't notice. He had the Fighter's live pulled up full screen, his phone held in both hands like it was something fragile.
The room on the screen was bad. Fluorescent, low-ceilinged, the kind of green room that exists in every arena in the world and looks exactly like every other one: scuffed walls, a vinyl bench, a door that didn't quite close all the way. No ring light. No backdrop. Elena was sitting slightly behind the Fighter, her knees pulled up, visible but not centered. The Fighter was holding the phone himself, the camera slightly too close to his face, the angle imperfect.
It was the most watched thing on the internet at that exact moment.
He hadn't said anything yet. He'd just gone live, and the comments were already flooding; thousands of them, stacking and disappearing faster than anyone could read. Little hearts pulsing up the sides of the screen. People typing his name over and over like a chant.
Then he looked at the camera.
Not at the screen. Not at the comments. At the camera. Like there was one person on the other side of it and he was talking to them specifically.
Emil's thumb hovered over the comment button. He didn't type anything.
The comments were moving fast. we love you. we love you. say it louder. king. SAY IT LOUDER.
He held up the phone slightly, like he was showing them the nothing around him.
A beat of silence. The comments slowed for just a second, like everyone inhaled at once.
In the background, Elena pressed her mouth together. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.
The comments exploded. Not the usual kind of explosion; not clipped reaction words and emojis stacked ten deep; but full sentences. People typing fast, like they needed to get it out before the moment passed.
The messages were stacking and disappearing too fast to read but Emil caught fragments. Enough.
He let it sit. Didn't fill the silence with anything. Didn't look at the comment count. He'd stopped performing the moment he went live and he wasn't going to start now.
The comment section had slowed down again. Not because people had stopped watching; the view count kept climbing, but because they had stopped typing. The little hearts kept coming, quiet and steady, like a pulse.
Emil was not typing either.
He was sitting on the concrete barrier in the parking lot of the United Center, his ring light casting a white glow over the side of his face, his own stream still technically running behind the Fighter's live. His chat was sending him messages he wasn't reading. Someone had probably noticed he'd gone silent. He didn't care.
He watched the Fighter look at the camera again; that same direct, unperformed look, and say, simply:
Then he ended the live.
The screen went dark. Instagram snapped back to the feed; a grid of sponsored posts and highlight reels and other people's carefully constructed moments; and Emil sat there in the sudden absence of it, the parking lot noise coming back in slowly. Car doors. Someone laughing somewhere. The distant sound of a horn.
He looked down at his own phone. His stream was still running. The ring light was still on. His chat was a blur of messages he hadn't read in ten minutes.
He reached over and turned the ring light off.
Sat in the dark for a moment.
Then he opened his contacts, scrolled to Dani, and typed:
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
He looked at the dead screen where the Fighter's face had been a minute ago. The curb. Six hours. She was eleven and she didn't leave.
He put his phone in his pocket and started walking toward the street to find a cab, his ring light tucked under his arm, the stream finally, quietly, ending on its own.