Alexandra "Allie" Berdnik sat cross-legged on her worn-out gaming chair, the glow of her monitor casting a pale light across her face. Her Twitch dashboard stared back at her, the viewer count stubbornly stuck at zero. She sighed, running a hand through her long, bleach-blonde hair, the ends frayed from too much dye and too little care. Her dark, mascara-heavy eyes flicked to the clock in the corner of the screen. 2:47 AM. Another night, another failure.

"God, I’m such a loser," she muttered to herself, her voice barely above a whisper. Her pink headset, always perched on her head like a crown of desperation, felt heavier than usual. She scrolled aimlessly through her social media feeds, each post a reminder of how far behind she was. Everyone else was thriving—getting engaged, buying houses, going viral. And here she was, 29 years old, living in a crappy apartment, streaming to no one, and still wearing the same skintight purple shirt she’d bought three years ago because it made her feel like she had something to offer.

Her eyes caught an ad in the corner of the screen. "$5,000?" she whispered. That was more money than she’d made in her entire streaming 'career'. This is insane. I can’t do this. Can I? She bit her lip, her black-painted nails tapping nervously on her desk. But what other options do I have? No one’s watching my streams. I’m broke. I’m almost 30. I’m...nothing.

She clicked the ad.

The application was simple—too simple. What if someone finds out? What if my family sees it? But then she thought about the money. The attention. The chance to finally be seen. She uploaded a few photos, her hands trembling. She made sure to include one with her push-up bra, her tiny cleavage on display, and another with her pink dog collar, because she knew it made her look edgy.

Two days later, they paid for her flight to San Diego. "This is it. This is your last chance. It’s just one video. And then maybe... maybe people will finally notice me."

The interviewer and male talent welcomed her into the hotel room for the shoot. Allie signed the forms, mentioning her Twitch handle during the interview, forcing another smile for the camera out of the last amount of self-esteem she had left in her body, as the male talent's crotch was eye-level with her face, getting ready to begin. What if this doesn’t change anything? What if I’m still just... me?