Page 4 of Falling Off Script

Tank top situation: strategic. Lighting: suspiciously flattering.

She looks like a skincare subscription ad that wants to cancel you.

Emily leans into the mic.

“What separates our Zeta specimen from the rest of the pack? Alphas chase. Sigmas retreat. Zetas sell retreats about not chasing.”

Oh, we’re doing this.

I keep watching.

“Alphas need the throne. Sigmas need the cave. Zetas need the camera.”

This isn’t just a rant. It’s performance. It’s crafted. Every punchline lands like it’s been A/B tested on her group chat. And I respect the hustle.

I pause the reel on her mid-eye-roll. Zoom in. She's annoyingly photogenic, even when she’s calling me emotionally unemployed.

Tyler pings again.

TYLER:

You’ve been invited to BuzzBattle. You and her. Live panel. Audience questions. No script. Broadcast in thirty countries. You in?

I stare at the message for a second.

BuzzBattle with the Zeta Slayer. Live, no script?

Challenge accepted, hottie.

ME:

Yep. I’m in. Let’s give them a show.

3. Emily

The studio lights are brighter than I expected. Not warm and flattering like podcast ring lights. Harsh. Surgical. Like I've accidentally stumbled into an operating theater, and my dignity's on the table.

I scan the crowd. Mostly men. Of course. Every other seat is occupied by a dude in a fitted blazer, Zayne disciple energy radiating from their pores. I spot one guy in a flat cap who looks like he microdoses and blames feminism for it.

And then Adrian Zayne strolls in, reeking of a four-figure cologne and main character syndrome.

Every woman glances. Every man clocks him. He doesn’t just enter a room—he adjusts the gravity.

Adrian looks at me and smiles.

My stomach flips. Not a crush. Just my nervous system confusing performance aggression with a mating call. Again.

And then it hits me—he’s doing it.The Look.

I’ve seen it in his videos. Heard the script.

“Look at a woman like she’s already yours.”

And damn it, it works.

Just for a second.

I feel myself reacting—back straightening, pulse skipping—like my body forgot I hate him.

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