Tristan Jacinto scrolled through his phone with the lazy confidence of someone who had never once dealt with real consequences. His thumb drifted in slow, bored arcs across the screen while his other hand held a heavy crystal glass, the whiskey inside barely touched. It wasn’t even lunchtime. Not that he cared. Time was just another luxury he abused.
His name was trending again.
He tapped the hashtag with a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Photos. Headlines. Commentary written by strangers who talked as if they knew him personally. The same recycled script spilled down the screen like some tired prophecy: billionaire heir, professional disaster, beloved menace. Someone had already made a new meme of him stepping out of that alley beside Elysium, the flash from a paparazzi c
