In the seven days since the challenge, Emily Hartwell's phone had become a living, vibrating nightmare.
It didn't politely pause between notifications the way a sane device might after, say, the fiftieth consecutive seven-figure offer from a multinational corporation desperate to plaster Phei Ryujin Tiamat's face across every billboard from Paradise to the Pacific.
No.
Emily's phone had decided rest was for peasants.
It buzzed with the manic, relentless energy of a gadget that had accepted its new life purpose: to serve as the central nervous system for every brand, sports franchise, energy-drink conglomerate, luxury-watch maker, sneaker label, gaming peripheral company, and marketing executive on the planet who wanted a piece of the seventeen-year-old who'd publicly humiliated five Legacy heirs on national television and looked like a literal god while doing it.
