Detroit 2024

The room was quiet, save for the faint buzz of a fluorescent light overhead. Marshall Mathers sat hunched over his laptop at the kitchen table, a half-empty can of Red Bull by his side. He stared at the screen for a long moment, fingers drumming absently on the edge of the keyboard. This was stupid. Completely ridiculous. But here he was, about to do it anyway.

He cracked his knuckles, exhaled sharply, and clicked “Create Account.”

For the name, he paused. His real name was out of the question. “Nathan Miles,” he typed after a moment, smirking to himself. Generic. Easy to remember. Untraceable. Perfect.

Next came the profile picture. Marshall squinted at the folder of random images on his desktop. No way he’d use his own face—hell. Too risky. Finally, he dragged and dropped a photo of his back, the hood over his head. In the background a sunset.

Bio. What the hell do you even write in these things? He tapped out a few lines:

*“Just a guy who likes music, good food, and chilling with people who can keep it real. Looking to chat and see what’s out there.”*

Short. Simple. Unassuming. It didn’t sound like him at all, which was the whole point.

Marshall hovered over the “Save” button for a second, his finger twitching on the trackpad. Part of him wanted to slam the laptop shut and forget he ever had this idea. But the other part—the restless, curious side that always got him into trouble—clicked it before he could second-guess himself again.

The screen refreshed, and just like that, “Nathan Miles” was live. He sat back in his chair, staring at the profile he’d just created. He hadn’t even searched for anyone yet, but his pulse felt like it was racing.

What the hell am I doing?