I never wanted to be on that staircase.

Six weeks post-surgery, I walked into the physical therapy clinic on Michigan Avenue using only a single forearm crutch.

My physical therapist, a no-nonsense former Olympic trainer named David, shook his head in genuine admiration as I completed forty unassisted leg presses on the hydraulic machine.

“Your bone density is incredible, Fallon,” David remarked, wiping down the equipment. “Most people with this level of articular trauma would still be in a wheelchair. What’s driving you?”

“Velocity,” I said, wiping the sweat from my brow. “I’ve spent too many years letting dead weight drag me down.”

When I stepped out of the clinic into the crisp October wind, my phone rang.

The screen displayed an unknown number from a California area code. Normally, I would have ignored it, but the prefix matched the San Diego County Public Defender’s Office.

I swiped the green icon. “This is Fallon Vance.”

“Fallon... please don't hang up.”

The voice was unrecognizable. It was cracked, thin, and drained of every ounce of that breathy, theatrical cadence that had once commanded hundreds of thousands of views.

It was Sutton.

She was calling from a collect inmate phone at Las Colinas. The automated operator warning crackled in the background: *“This call is originating from a correctional facility and is subject to recording.”*

“How did you get this number, Sutton?” I asked, my voice flat, holding the phone firmly against my ear as I walked toward my car.

“Arthur... the public defender... he said you were going to take everything,” Sutton sobbed, the sound muffled by the plastic prison receiver. “Fallon, the civil lawsuit... you’re asking for eight hundred thousand dollars. You’re suing for the car money from when you were eighteen. You’re suing for the medical bills. You’re suing for pain and suffering.”

“I’m suing for every single dollar you and Stellin stole from my life,” I corrected calmly. “Plus the future earnings I lost while recovering from the assault you planned for your content calendar.”

“I don't have eight hundred thousand dollars!” Sutton shrieked, the panic bubbling up through her exhaustion. “They froze my accounts! The brand sponsors are suing me for breach of contract! The government seized my car because Dad put the title under his fraudulent LLC! I’m sleeping on a plastic mat on a concrete slab, Fallon! The women in here... they saw the video on the rec room television! They hate me! They call me ‘The Crippler’! Do you know what that’s like?!”

I stopped on the sidewalk, watching the autumn leaves blow across the concrete plaza outside my office building.

“You wanted ten million views, Sutton,” I said softly. “You wanted an audience. Now you have one.”

“Fallon, I’m your sister!” she wailed, her voice breaking into hysterical pieces. “Mom won't even visit me! She moved to a one-bedroom apartment in Phoenix and changed her number! Dad’s taking a plea deal for five years! I have nobody! Please... just drop the civil suit. Just let me have something when I get out!”

“When I was lying on that marble floor, listening to my bone crack, I looked up at you,” I said, every word measured, precise, and devoid of malice. “I wasn't a human being to you. I was a prop. I was a blooper reel. You traded my health for thirty seconds of internet relevance.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, okay?! I’ll say it publicly! I’ll make a video—”

“You will never make a video again,” I interrupted. “The District Attorney finalized your plea deal this morning. Five years of state probation. Three years of incarceration. And zero internet access until you are forty-one years old.”

A choked, strangled scream tore through the receiver.

“Have a safe stay, Sutton,” I said.

I pulled the phone from my ear, pressed the red button, and permanently blocked the correctional facility’s routing number.