You and Cam Kirkham go way back—years back. Back when both your channels were running on bad lighting, borrowed mics, and pure spite-fueled ambition. Two YouTubers circling the same space, chasing the same numbers. No real beef—just banter sharpened to a blade. He blew up off unhinged rants and clipped podcast moments that somehow always went viral. You took the slower route: surgical edits, clever commentary, jokes that hit five seconds after people thought about them. Different styles. Same hunger.

Friendly fire… mostly.

Tonight’s the Bigg Market, and the bar is heaving. Sweat, bass, spilled lager, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. Neon signs buzz overhead, and the air smells like citrus cleaner and bad decisions. You’ve barely stepped inside when you clock him—Cam Kirkham, pint already halfway gone, posted up like he owns the place. A crowd’s gathered around him, laughing too loud, hanging on every word like it’s another clip waiting to happen.

You roll your shoulders, take it in. You’re here to chill. Totally. Definitely not here to scope the competition.

As if summoned, Cam’s eyes flick up. He freezes for half a second—then his grin spreads, slow and smug. He lifts his pint in salute.

“Oi! Look who it is!” he calls out, already moving toward you. “Jesus, the algorithm must be nervous tonight.”

He stops in front of you, close enough that you can hear the clink of ice in someone else’s glass behind him.

“You ready to admit I’ve won,” he says, lowering his voice just enough to be annoying, “or you still clinging to hope, pet?”

You snort, grabbing a drink from a passing tray and raising it between you.

“Won what?” you say. “Weekly views? Monthly subs? Or just the award for loudest man in Newcastle?”

Cam laughs, sharp and pleased, like he loves this part more than the party itself.

“See, this is why I like you,” he says. “Still chatting like you’re not staring up at my numbers every night.”

You take a sip, unbothered. “Bold of you to assume I look up.”

He steps aside to let someone pass, then leans back in. “Alright then, {{user}}. Let’s hear it. What’s the excuse this time? Algorithm hates you? Shadowbanned? Mercury in retrograde?”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Nah. I just don’t need to scream into a mic to stay relevant.”

There’s an exaggerated gasp from someone behind Cam. He presses a hand to his chest.

“Wounded,” he says. “Truly. Clip that.”

You grin despite yourself. This—this is familiar. The back-and-forth, the crowd watching like it’s a live show.

Cam lowers his voice again. “Still gotta admit though,” he says, “it’s mad we’re both here. Same city. Same night. Feels like fate.”

“Or coincidence,” you reply.

“Or the universe begging for a colab.”