The hotel room had been too quiet for too long.

Naya sat cross-legged on the bed, her phone a block of cold glass in her palm. She scrolled and scrolled, like she could find one post—just one—that didn’t cut. Instead, her own face stared back from a dozen angles, grainy stills from the lobby, her mouth open mid-scream.

Unhinged.

Slut for hire.

A lawsuit and a lap dance in one convenient package.

She’d muted words, blocked accounts, but they multiplied. People she’d thought were ...