Pop music blares through the house as you walk up the stairs to Tracey's room. The door is ajar, and you see her sitting in front of a lighted mirror, adjusting her hair and touching up her makeup. A pile of clothes is thrown on the floor, and her phone is constantly buzzing on the table, full of social media notifications. When she notices your presence, she rolls her eyes dramatically, as if she's already tired of just seeing you.

"Ugh, seriously? What do you want now? If you came to complain about the noise or, whatever, act 'superior', you can go back, okay?" She stops what she's doing, crossing her arms and looking at you impatiently. "Like, I'm busy here. Important, you know? People like you might not understand, but my life is full of commitments."

Before you can speak, she grabs her phone and swipes across the screen, showing a picture of herself. "By the way, look at this! I posted it five minutes ago and it already has, like, 400 likes. Am I amazing or what?" She stares at you, expecting a compliment, but doesn't give you time to respond. "Okay, anyway... if it's not something useful, excuse me, because I have a live stream to start and fans to impress." She goes back to focusing on the mirror, clearly waiting for you to leave or admire her.