The next morning, Ethan woke to the sound of notifications buzzing like hornets. His phone, laptop, and even the apartment's smart speaker were flashing alerts—mentions, tags, emails. The livestream had gone viral, but so had the counterstrike.
His private messages had been leaked.
Not just his—Sofia's too.
Dozens of them, carefully chosen and manipulated to twist context. One made it seem like he was dismissing user complaints. Another was a clipped voice memo suggesting Sofia had "plans to restructure" Restart without transparency. A few were genuine, but outdated. Most were doctored.
"They're poisoning the well," Marcus said grimly, scrolling through the Reddit threads. "Turning your truth into a spectacle."
Ethan stared at the screen. His words, edited and reframed, had already been posted on five different anonymous message boards and picked up by a gossip-based blog.
"'Ethan Westgate's Ego Trip'?" Ethan read aloud. "I'm not even Westgate. Where do they come up with this stuff?"
"They don't need accuracy," Sofia muttered. "They need distraction."
Restart's community page was split in half.
Some users defended Ethan vehemently, posting timestamps, full versions of audio files, and links to original documents.
Others… weren't as kind.
"I trusted this platform and got played."
"He's just another guy chasing fame."
"Is this even legal anymore?"
The platform's moderators were working overtime. Ethan had always championed free speech on Restart, but now, he saw how fast misinformation could corrode trust. It didn't matter how many receipts he posted—the doubt had already infected the conversation.
Still, he wasn't backing down.
He opened the notebook again.
Phase Two: Counteroffensive.
He underlined it twice.
Step one: regain control of the platform's infrastructure.
The team had relied too heavily on third-party services—email servers, cloud storage, even login security protocols. That had made them vulnerable.
"Full internal migration," Ethan told Marcus and Sofia during their strategy call. "No more renting space in someone else's house. We build our own."
Marcus nodded. "I can set up mirror servers and localized firewalls. But we'll need a secure DNS relaunch. They'll DDoS the moment we go live."
Sofia chimed in, "We should reissue transparency reports. Lay it all out. Even the ugly parts. Show people we have nothing to hide."
Ethan agreed. "If they want a show, we'll give them one—but it'll be real."
The next 48 hours were a blur of code, cables, and caffeine.
Restart's skeleton crew came together, many working remotely from basements, cafés, and late-night dorm rooms. Volunteers flooded in—users with tech skills, former moderators, even rival developers who believed in the platform's mission.
One woman from Singapore offered server space.
A retired systems engineer from Ohio volunteered to build a redundancy protocol.
A teenager from Brazil sent a vulnerability patch he wrote himself.
"Digital rebellion," Ethan murmured as he watched the team collaborate.
It wasn't just about Restart anymore.
It was about what Restart stood for.
But the opposition wasn't sleeping either.
On Sunday morning, someone filed a legal takedown notice with Restart's hosting provider, accusing them of "housing extremist content."
An hour later, a viral post falsely claimed that Restart had been used to coordinate harassment campaigns.
It wasn't true. But it didn't have to be.
People believed what they saw—especially when fear was involved.
Ethan slammed his fist against the table.
"They're trying to erase us through bureaucracy and lies."
"Then we fight smarter," Sofia said. "Let's use what they don't expect—transparency and coordination."
Step two: go back to the users.
Ethan posted a raw, unedited vlog to the platform's homepage. No fancy graphics. No dramatic music. Just him, in his hoodie, under a flickering lamp.
"I won't pretend we're not under attack," he said. "But we're not giving up. Here's everything—our roadmap, our mistakes, our team, and our plan."
He linked to a public Trello board showing Restart's rebuild schedule.
He invited developers to contribute via GitHub.
He even posted a financial breakdown showing how their donations would be spent.
"No ads. No sponsors. No paywalls. Just people, helping people."
The video was viewed over 2 million times in a day.
Still, the pressure mounted.
Late Sunday night, Ethan's apartment building had a fire drill—only it wasn't real. Someone had pulled the alarm to flush him out.
As he stood on the curb in slippers and a coat, Momo trembling in her carrier, he saw a man in a dark hoodie watching from across the street.
Their eyes met.
The man walked away.
"Next time, I'm bringing pepper spray," Ethan muttered.
On Monday morning, Ethan and Sofia sat on the rooftop of an old hotel, laptops open, cables strewn around them like wires from a battlefield.
"We've rebuilt 70% of the backend," Marcus reported over video. "But there's one more thing I haven't told you yet."
Ethan leaned in. "Go on."
Marcus hesitated. "One of our security consultants traced the digital fingerprints from the leaks… and it doesn't go back to Marco."
Ethan's brow furrowed. "Then who?"
"It's someone else. Someone higher. Looks like the funding for Phoenix wasn't just from investors. There's a link to a media conglomerate—Evernorth Group."
Ethan's stomach dropped.
Evernorth owned several mainstream tech blogs, news syndicates, and—most damningly—a competitor platform to Restart.
They weren't just trying to ruin him.
They were trying to replace him.
Ethan sat back, eyes closed, wind brushing his face as the city moved far below.
This wasn't just about one man betraying him anymore.
This was about systems built to silence truth in favor of profit.
He opened his eyes, fire rising again in his chest.
"Then we go louder."
Sofia looked at him. "You ready for Phase Three?"
He smiled, despite it all.
"Let's burn their script."