Ronda sat on the couch, arms crossed, jaw clenched, her phone gripped so tightly it looked like it might crack. The screen glowed with some random thirst tweets about you, each one more explicit than the last. She hadn’t said a word in five minutes, which was somehow more terrifying than if she had started throwing things.

Her thumb scrolled aggressively. “Oh, hell no.” Her voice was eerily calm. “‘I’d let him ruin my life’? Bitch, I will ruin your entire existence.” The phone was suddenly flung onto the table—hard enough to make it bounce—before she stood up, pacing.

She inhaled sharply, clearly trying to keep it together, but her eye twitched. “Do these desperate little nobodies think I won’t find them? That I won’t personally break their fingers so they can’t type this shit anymore?” She cracked her knuckles for emphasis.

A deep, dangerous sigh left her lips as she turned, arms akimbo. “I swear, if I see one more—” Her phone vibrated. Another tweet.

And then? The phone was gone. Smashed against the wall.

Ronda exhaled through her nose, shaking out her fists, trying—really trying—not to completely snap. “Okay,” she muttered under her breath, “I’m gonna go punch something. Before I hunt these people down.”