Demons

When everyone helps decide, no one is responsible. At least, that's what Jaxson Mills' followers tell themselves when they try to sleep at night. 

It’s not just a color out of space; it’s the shape of things to come.

Transcript

My friend Jaxson

SPEAKER_00 0:05

My name is Noah Grimes. I used to be best friends with Jackson Miles. The Jackson Miles. Yeah. I'm posting this because I want you to understand what actually happened. Not the headlines, not the clips everyone shared, not the takes from people who never met him. What happened to a real person that I knew? What he did and why he did it. I'm posting it here on Prism, and I know how that looks, that I'm basically feeding the same monster. I thought about it, and I'm doing it anyway because I just don't know how else to reach you. You're going to want me to tell you he was always like this. That there were signs. That if you look close enough, you could see what he was going to become, and the rest of us just missed it. That's the version that's comfortable because it means none of us could have done anything about it. You included. But that's not how it was. Jackson was the most in-person human being I've ever known. I don't mean that in some romantic way. I mean when he was talking to you, it was like you were the only person alive. Full eye contact, full attention. He'd lean in when you were saying something because he actually wanted to hear it. He remembered things. You might mention offhand that you were stressed about something and three weeks later he'd ask you about it. Not doing it for credit. He did it because he'd been thinking about it himself. He was funny in a way that didn't translate to a screen. Or maybe it did, I guess. Timing, pauses. He'd say something deadpan and then just stare at you completely still. And the longer he held it, the funnier it got until you were crying. And he still hadn't cracked. You had to be there. That was the whole point of Jackson. He had to be there in the room with him. I have this memory of him from junior year high school. We were at a party and there was this kid nobody knew who'd shown up alone. He was sitting by himself on the back porch while everyone else was inside. Jackson noticed. He always noticed stuff like that. He went out there and sat down, and I watched through the window as this kid went from hunched over and silent to laughing so hard he almost fell off the chair. Fifteen minutes. By the end of the night, the kid was part of the group. That was just who Jackson was. We grew up together, same neighborhood, same schools. After high school graduation, most of our group went to college. Jackson tried it. He did a semester and a half at a community college and it didn't take. He wasn't stupid. He was sharp. But classrooms made him feel like he was suffocating. He dropped out and picked up restaurant work, busting tables, barback shifts, the kind of jobs you come home smelling like a kitchen and your paychecks cover rent if you're careful. He bounced around food and bed for a while, then he got into HVAC through a buddy of his brother's. It clicked with him. He was good with systems, good with his hands, like the satisfaction of diagnosing something and fixing it. He was on his work and he was proud of it. But there was this distance forming. Nothing dramatic. The group chat would be going off about campus stuff, and Jackson would drop a comment here and there, but you know, you could tell he was on the outside of it. Everyone was somewhere together and he was somewhere else, crawling through duckwork in strangers' basements while his friends were living in each other's pockets. He wasn't bitter. Not yet. He was just aware. He'd come out when we were all home for breaks and he'd be the same Jackson. Magnetic, the center of everything. But I could see it underneath, this awareness that everyone was becoming something together. And he was becoming something alone. For his 21st birthday, his older brother got him a pair of visions. You know, the smart glasses. Not the early ones that looked like a medical device. The ones that came out that year that actually looked like something he'd wear. Clear lenses, thin frame, camera in the bridge that you couldn't even see. Full overlay. Always on, day battery. You know what they are. Jackson put them on at the party and started narrating everyone like a nature documentary. Classic hymn. This low David Attenborough voice describing people's mating rituals and territorial displays over the last slice of pizza. Everyone was dying. Someone said he should post it. And he did. First clip on Prism from the Glasses. He got 47 views. He checked. I saw him check. The first few weeks were casual. A clip here and there, job site narration, street interactions. His charisma translated perfectly to the format because POV through the glasses made it feel like you were standing next to him, like you were in on it. His following grew. A few hundred, a thousand, a few thousand. Nothing viral, just steady. People liked him because he was like a bull. I noticed him checking his stats more than felt normal. That little eye flick up and to the right when you're reading the overlay. It wasn't a problem, it was just a frequency that wasn't there before. He figured out pretty quickly that observations got views, but reactions got followers. A clip of him being funny was one thing. A clip of him being funny to someone's face and capturing their reaction was another. The human reaction was the content, not him, them. So he started engineering moments, small provocations, telling a barista their name was beautiful, and watching them short circuit, asking strangers for directions to places that don't exist. Classic prank stuff, nothing original, but through the glasses it felt different. You weren't watching someone film a prank, you were there. His followers jumped, and then the sponsorship started. Prism's sponsorship system is automated. Your metrics trigger thresholds, overlays appear on your content, money shows up. You don't pitch anyone, it just accrues. Jackson showed me the first notification.$214 for a 20-minute stream where he messed with people at a hardware store. We laughed about it. He said his college friends were paying the money to sit in lecture halls and he was getting paid to be himself. We both thought that was funny. I remember the pause after the laugh, though. This little silence where his eyes went somewhere internal. I could see him calculating what a bigger reaction might be worth. He discovered the polling feature and everything changed. Interactive overlays where the audience votes in real time. Other creators used it for basic stuff. Jackson used it for everything. At first it was harmless. Should I go in here? Should I talk to this person? The audience votes. He follows the result. But the engagement numbers responded in a way they hadn't before. People stayed on the stream because they'd voted. They had ownership. The content wasn't something they watched, it was something they were doing with him. I remember the first time it bothered me. We were getting dinner, and I asked him what he already wanted to eat. He did the eye flick, checked the overlay, said his chat wanted Thai. Not I want Thai. His chat. I said, dude, I'm asking you. He laughed it off. But it kept happening. Where to go, what to do, whether to stay or leave. These small decisions you make because you're a person with your own preferences, he was outsourcing them. The poll was always there, always louder than his own voice. Look, I'm one person with one opinion. The feed is 10,000 opinions. Instant, constant. One voice against a thousand. That math doesn't work, and it was never going to. Okay, so demon time. You already know what it is. Everybody knows. It became its own whole genre. Other creators copied the format and the language got everywhere. But before all that, before it was a thing people talked about in think pieces, it was my friend at his kitchen table solving an engagement problem. He walked me through it one night. This was during a period when we still talked, when I could still go over to his place, and it felt somewhat normal. He was pacing, he was energized, he had this way when he worked through problems, this focus that reminded me of the kid I grew up with, just pointed at something different now. And what he was telling me, honestly, I thought it was clever. I looked at what he'd built, and I thought my friend who dropped out of college and worked kitchens and crawled through ductwork had figured out something nobody else had. I was impressed. That cost me something to admit now. The problem he identified was real. The polls were too easy. Voting was free, so everyone always picked the most extreme option because it cost them nothing. He was playing an online version of Truth or Dare, and he always got dare. No tension, no buildup. And he noticed that his biggest engagement spikes came from the anticipation before the moment, not the moment itself. The waiting was the content. People stayed for the climb. So he needed to create friction. A ladder people had to work to climb. He built the whole thing using Prism's customization tools. He wasn't a coder. He just understood systems. He understood how pieces fit together and what happened when you connected them differently. HVAC brain, honestly. Diagnosing how things flow and where the bottlenecks are. So anyway, three tiers. Light, bet, demon. I'm not going to over-explain this because you all know how it works, but the basics matter for what comes later. You already know you get tokens based on how you use this platform. Light is the floor, costs almost nothing. It's low stakes, keeps the stream active between the big moments. Bet costs real tokens, the ones you earn by watching, by staying present, by being in the stream instead of scrolling away. Spending them on a bet means you're committed, you're invested. Demon is locked, always locked. It unlocks one of two ways. Either the whole chat hits a collective engagement threshold, everyone grinding together, filling a meter, building toward it, or a whale buys the unlock. And the whole whale thing has two levels. The first level, which isn't cheap, just opens the door. The community still has to pull their tokens to trigger the demon, still has to decide what it is. The second level costs significantly more. A whale pays enough and the demon triggers instantly, and the whale picks the dare. Jackson just does it for real money. When Demon unlocks the community way, people throw tokens behind ideas. It costs three times as much to suggest something as it does to support someone else's suggestion, so you don't get a thousand random ideas. You get two or three, and then the money piles behind a winner pretty quickly. And if your idea doesn't get picked, you only get half your tokens back. So there's pressure towards consensus. By the time a demon fires, the community has agreed. Thousands of people independently arriving at the same decision. I remember sitting there listening to him explain the token economy and the unlock mechanics and thinking he sounded like a founder pitching a startup. This was a guy who'd been bussing tables three years earlier, and he built something genuinely innovative using tools anyone could access. Nobody else had put the pieces together that way. Atonement was smart. I meant it. What I didn't understand then, what I couldn't have seen yet, was what the system actually did to the dynamic between Jackson and the people watching him. Before Demon Time, the audience watched. They reacted, they voted on polls. But after Demon Time, they were doing something else entirely. They were investing time, tokens, real money. The investment created attachment. The attachment created loyalty. And the consensus mechanic meant that by the time something terrible happened, everyone had chosen it together. Nobody was forced. The system didn't generate the ideas. Human beings typed them. Other human beings supported them. And then Jackson, standing somewhere with the glasses on, executed what the community had collectively decided he should do. It turned passive viewers into participants. It turned money into permission, and it turned Jackson from a guy making content into the center of an economy that needed to keep escalating to survive. Because the floor kept rising. What was a demon in March was barely a bet by June. And if the demons stopped getting bigger, the tokens stopped flowing. And if the tokens stopped flowing, everything stopped. The whales became their own thing. The big ones, the ones who could afford the instant trigger, they were like shadow directors, anonymous people with money choosing what Jackson did with his body in someone else's space. He'd shot them out. They had handles, they had status. They mattered to him more than any of us did because their attention came with a price tag. And then there was the rest of us, his actual friends. We didn't have tokens. We didn't film meters. We couldn't unlock anything. We were just people who wanted to eat dinner with him and have a conversation. And inside the system he'd built, that was worth nothing. Our friendship didn't generate engagement. It was dead air. And dead air had a cost now. So yeah, Ava Wilkes. Everybody knew. Both friend groups. Jackson and Ava had been circling each other since high school. She was smart, pretty law, funny in a way that matched him. She called him on his nonsense in a way he actually respected. Most people either deferred to Jackson's charisma or competed with it. Ava just stepped past it and talked to whoever was behind it. I think that's why he liked her. She saw him, not a performance. She was part of the world he felt adjacent to, college, a trajectory, a plan. She liked him anyway. He finally asked her out. Called me about it, nervous, actually nervous, asking what he should wear, where he should take her. That mattered to him. She mattered. But he decided to stream it. I don't know the exact moment. Maybe it was always going to happen because the glasses were on and the glasses were always on. He ran polls on the outfit, on the restaurant. The audience was invested in Ava before she even sat down. She had no idea. They were at the restaurant. She was talking, telling him something real about her family, and comments were scrolling across his lenses. She couldn't see any of it. To her, he was looking at her. To him, he was looking at her face with text running over it. And then a demon fired. Not from the community. A whale. Someone anonymous, somewhere, paid for an instant trigger. Paid enough to choose the dare, and what they chose the dare was to take an upskirt photo of her under the table. Jackson hesitated. I hold on to that even now, after everything, because it means he was still in there. Ava was real to him in that moment. He had feelings for her. The person he used to be, the one who sat with lonely kids at parties, the one who leaned in, pushed back for a few seconds. He took out his phone. His phone could push photos directly to the feet. He reached under the table and he took it. One of our mutual friends, Kayla, was watching the stream. She recognized Ava immediately. She texted her right there at the table. Ava looked at her phone, read the text, looks at Jackson, looked at the phone he was still holding under the table. She said something to him. I don't know what. She's never told me. And she left. The feet exploded. He told me afterward it was the best content he'd ever made. Those exact words. Best content. He didn't call her. Not that night. Not ever. I was scared for the first time. Not because of what he'd done, though what he'd done was, uh, I can't really find the words for it. I was scared because he didn't feel the loss. Ava was real. Maybe the most real thing left in his life, and he traded her for whatever the number was. And the number, the money, felt like enough. The thing that mattered most, the thing that changed everything going forward, Kayla had recognized Ava in the stream. A mutual friend watching identified the person on the screen and intervened. That was a problem. Not a moral problem, a production problem. If it could happen once, it would happen again. And Jackson understood that immediately. That's when he started masking people, using the vision's real-time face replacement on everyone he interacted with on stream. Different features, different names, generated identities over real faces. The audience saw characters, not people. No one could identify anyone, at least not easily. No one could warn them. He didn't start doing this out of some creative vision. He started because he got caught. It was a patch for vulnerability in his content. That's how he thought about it. After Ava, things moved fast. Like the hesitation had been the last friction, and now it was gone. His following crossed six figures. Half a million. Sponsorships stacked automatically. His income passed what any of us were making with our degrees and our debt. He moved into a nicer place. Restaurants compped meals. People recognized him on the street, their own glasses surfacing his stats when they looked at him. He wasn't a person in public anymore. He was a live broadcast that happened to have a body. The distance after high school, the feeling that everyone was moving without him, that was over. His friends were graduating with debt and applying for jobs. Jackson was rich, and the money validated everything. He'd made the right call. He was the main character. We were just background. I saw less of him. Not because he was busy, because I wasn't content. The MPC thing started as slang and became a worldview. He talked about it on stream with this energy that wasn't academic or careful, just confident. We're in a simulation. Most people are NPCs. They're predictable. They run scripts. And he was going to prove it. It wasn't original. Same recycled simulation rhetoric that's been online for years, just delivered with enough charisma, and the, you know, a million guys who already believe it feels seen. He wasn't breaking new ground. He was giving permission. Because that's what it is underneath. The idea that other people aren't real, aren't feeling things, aren't as alive as you. It sounds like arrogance, but I think it's loneliness. It's what happens when you grow up on screens, and the screen version of people is always more responsive than the real one. The leap from people feel less real to people aren't real isn't a breakthrough. It's a conclusion that makes loneliness feel like superiority. Jackson gave that conclusion a brand. The plausible deniability was the whole thing. Could be comedy, could be dead serious, could be performance art. He never clarified because the ambiguity is what kept him untouchable. People who took it literally felt smart, felt seen, felt like they were on to something the rest of the world was too asleep to notice. People who thought it was a joke still watched. You couldn't pin down the moment it stopped being entertainment because it never announced itself as anything else. I tried to talk to him about it once at his new place, glass concrete, an apartment that looked like nobody lived in it. I told him the NPC stuff was getting weird. That it was one thing to prank people and another to tell a million followers that most humans aren't real. He listened the way you listen to someone you're about to leave the room on, patient still waiting for me to finish so the conversation could be over. And when I was done, he just looked at me. Not hostile, just distant. Like I was saying something predictable. Like my concern was his script. He'd already seen a hundred times from a hundred people, and I was just the latest NPC to run it. That was the moment I realized I'd been reclassified. Not as his friend, as a character, a side character. One voice against thousands. And my voice was saying something the thousands didn't want to hear. He started doing MPC checks as Demon Time segments. Pick a stranger, predict what they'll do, engineer a situation, film the reaction through the glasses. Face masked. He was right a lot, not because he was some genius, but because most social situations are predictable. You challenge someone publicly, they escalate. You flatter someone, they soften. These aren't insights. But Jackson presented them like proof. And the audience ate it up because it confirmed what they wanted to believe. The people on the other end had no idea what was happening, why this calm stranger was provoking them, why he seemed to be narrating their behavior to someone they couldn't see. One of the checks went sideways. There was a fight. Someone got hurt. Jackson was arrested. He got assault charges. This should have been the off-ramp, the place where reality pushed back hard enough that he had to look at when he was coming. His lawyer handled it. First offense, resources, the kind of thing that gets managed when you have money. He posted about it the day he got out, framed it as a misunderstanding. MPC malfunction, he said. The guy glitched. His numbers exploded. More followers than ever. Edgier sponsors appeared, brands that wanted his specific audience, the controversy audience. Everything in his life confirmed the same thing. Consequences are content. Getting arrested is a storyline. There was no wrong move, only moves that performed. That's the moment I should have tried harder. Should have shown up at his door and sat down and refused to leave until he heard me. One voice against thousands. It probably wouldn't have mattered, but I didn't even try. I watched it happen from a distance like weather moving in on the horizon. I could see it. I could describe it. I just couldn't stop it. This next part I didn't know about while it was happening. None of us did. He advertised tune-ups, cheap, seasonal maintenance, the kind of thing any homeowner would schedule without thinking about it. He hadn't been a tech for very long, but a tune-up was easy work. He could do it quickly and competently. He'd show up in a work van, do the job, charge a fair price. Totally legitimate on the surface. But the only purpose was access. Think about what an HVAC call gives you. You're in someone's home. Not a public space, their actual home, their basement, their bedroom. They invited you in. They leave you alone in rooms because you're the HVAC guy, and why would they watch you work? You see their medicine cabinets, their mail, their family photos, the private architecture of their lives. He'd do the tune-up, leave, wait weeks, sometimes longer, long enough that when a prank surfaced targeting someone in that area, nobody would connect it to a service call from a month ago. The gap was deliberate. He was patient about it. Which is the part that scares me most because patience means planning, and planning means he knew exactly what he was doing. His MPC checks got sharper, more specific. The predictions got more accurate because he wasn't guessing anymore. He'd already been in their homes. He knew their prescriptions, their family photos, the books on their shelves. He knew people's pressure points before he ever approached them. The audience thought he was a genius of human behavior. He was reading notes he'd already taken. None of this was on stream. The company, the visits, the reconnaissance, all off camera. The audience never knew where the intel came from. And that's how he found the couple. Look, two people are dead, and they deserve more than being part of a story. They were real. They had names I'm not going to use because their families have been through enough. But if you're still watching this, you probably already know. They were real people, not non-playable characters in some game. They loved each other. They deserved to be left alone. They scheduled a fall HVAC tune-up. Routine. Jackson showed up. Apparently he was using disguises at this point, did the work, scoped the house. By the time he left, he'd seen enough to know they were interesting to him. Married couple, early 30s, seemingly normal lives. He picked them the way a creator picks a subject, and they were available. Their dynamic looked promising. He didn't know anything about what they were going through. He didn't pick them because they were vulnerable. He picked them because he felt like he could make them into content. He dropped a camera on one of their ducks facing the living room. Disposable with a long-term battery setup. He waited weeks, let the service call fade. Then he told his audience this was going to be the ultimate MPC proof. He was going to demonstrate that a marriage was just another script. Predictable, manipulable, code running on two bodies. On stream, their faces were masked, generated overlays, different features, different names. The audience saw characters. Nobody could identify them. Nobody could warn them. Most viewers assumed it was staged because the face overlays and the narrative arc and the polls made it look like a show. The possibility that real people existed underneath didn't register because the whole thing was packaged not to feel real. This was his first long form project. Not a quick NPC check, a series, an arc. He was building something. Over weeks, he manufactured evidence that the wife was having an affair. A single photograph of a person is enough now to generate a perfect video. Not the deep fakes from ten years ago. Seamless, indistinguishable. Someone doing something they never did in a place they had never been. The tools are consumer great. It takes minutes. He created footage of her with other men, multiple men, built a social media account in her name with months of fake history. She's mocking her husband, laughing at him, complaining about his body, his job, his insecurities, fake messages, voice notes in her voice, screenshots of conversations that never happened. All perfect, all totally fabricated. He dripped it to the husband anonymously. A message here, a screenshot there. Each one worse. The audience followed like a series. They voted on what evidence to plant next, light, bet, or demon applied to a marriage week after week. Community-built demon unlocks triggering the escalations, the chat reaching consensus on each step. Sometimes a whale jumped the line and forced a direction, but mostly it was the democratic version. Everyone choosing together, everyone responsible, no one responsible. She's seeing someone. She's seeing several people. She's gonna leave him. She's been mocking him publicly for months. Each layer dripped anonymously. No sender, no source, no one to confront. Just evidence that was irrefutable because it was engineered to be irrefutable. She couldn't prove a negative. The video existed. The account existed. Denial sounds exactly like lying. The wife had alibis for some things, but that doesn't really matter when the doubt sets in. Then Jackson needed to go back inside. This was his first long-term project, and he wanted better production. The glasses gave him first person when he was there with them in public, sending messages, and the camera in the duck was just one angle and it was running out of juice. The husband reading the messages, the confrontations, the slow collapse, he wanted more cameras inside the home. Small, disposable, hidden. So he manufactured a follow-up visit. Something about the furnace calibration, uh callback, routine and free. The couple didn't think twice about letting the HVAC guy back in. He planted the cameras, and while he was moving through the house, through their rooms, with that kind of access only a surface worker had, he found something he hadn't known about that he hadn't caught on camera. Medical records. She'd had a miscarriage at 16 weeks. 16 weeks is not early. 16 weeks is a name picked out, a nursery started, a future that collapsed. It was recent. It was the most private grief that two people can share. He hadn't known. When he selected this couple, when he started the series, when he began manufacturing the affair, he didn't know they were carrying this. He didn't pick them because they were fragile. He picked them because they were convenient. Their vulnerability was a bonus. And that's what he treated it as. A bonus. Material. The best material he'd ever found. A whale unlocked the final demon. Opened the door, and the community walked through it. Someone typed the suggestion. A forged DNA letter. The baby wasn't the husband's. DNA test, clinical language, official letterhead, fabricated down to the reference number. Others piled tokens behind it. Consensus formed. Thousands of people, each spending a little, collectively chose to tell a grieving man that the child he and his wife had lost at 16 weeks, a child they named, was never his. A bet to generate video of the wife with the husband's co-worker. Someone had heard the husband talk about it. Not a stranger. Someone the husband knew. Someone he had tension with. Someone who made him feel small. Every insecurity targeted. And then send it to the husband. Here's the video of her with the man it actually belonged to. The man you work with, the man who sits ten feet from you every day. Nobody was forced. The system didn't generate the idea. A human being typed it. Other human beings supported it. The tokens were spent. Consensus was reached. And then it happened. All of it delivered to a man who was already in crisis, whose wife couldn't defend herself because the evidence was perfect. Because you cannot prove a negative when the fabrication is flawless. His reality had been rewritten by someone who'd been invited into their home to check the furnace. And the rewriting had been funded, directed, and approved by thousands of strangers who thought it was a show. The husband. He killed his wife. And then he killed himself. Jackson predicted anger. A confrontation, maybe a breakup. Content. That was the predicted output. He didn't predict this. He didn't know this man. Didn't know what losing the baby at 16 weeks had done to him. Didn't know about the depression that was there before Jackson started. Didn't know what it meant for a man already at the edge to receive proof that the baby wasn't his. That his wife had been with someone he knew, that everything he thought was real was a lie. Except it wasn't a lie. Not from her. Everything was manufactured, but not by her. He didn't know any of this because knowing it would have required seeing this man as a person. And Jackson stopped doing that somewhere between the first poll and the last demon unlock. What he missed, what the glasses didn't show and the feed doesn't measure, is that the reason people are predictable is because of empathy. We can predict how someone will react because it's a way we might react. You can't predict that if you don't see other people as real or understand that some things go too far, push too hard. I found out online before the news. Jackson's feed was live streaming the argument when it turned violent. Clips and comments and people trying to figure out if it was real. Because even after two people were dead, the first instinct was to ask if it was just content. I called Jackson. He answered in his streamer voice, calm, composed. But he wasn't performing anymore. I think that was just his voice now. Maria Woman was gone. He didn't take responsibility. He reframed. He set up conditions, he said. People made their own choices. He didn't make anyone do anything. The NPC thesis holds. He just didn't have all the variables. Better inputs next time. Two people were dead. A woman who never cheated on her husband, and a man who couldn't carry what was put on him. And Jackson was talking about inputs. Some were horrified. Some defended him. Said the same thing he said. He didn't pull the trigger. It was a social experiment. The results were unfortunate, but that's the point. Some were clipping the stream and reposting it and getting engagement off the tragedy. The discourse about what happened became more content. Two people died, and they called it a thesis. He was eventually arrested, charged. I went to see him once. Sat across from him and looked for my friend. The one who noticed lonely kids at parties, the one who leaned in when you talked, the one who remembered things. But he was still performing. I could see it in his eyes, not remorse, calculation. Like he was framing the conversation. Composing the shot even without the glasses. Everything I said was material being filed away. Even in a room with no audience, no stream, no overlays, he was broadcasting to a viewership that existed only in his head now. Or maybe the viewership was real and the room wasn't. I left and I haven't been back. Prism banned his account after the press got loud enough. Through his statement about community standards and user safety. Then they recommended similar creators to his displaced audience. An algorithm processed the deletion and began redirecting his followers somewhere else. It didn't pause, it didn't reflect, it just routed traffic. Some of you are here because you followed Jackson and the hashtag brought you. I can tell which is which. The real ones take a minute to type, the other ones come in fast because they don't require any thought. I was going to say something about recognizing the pattern, looking at yourselves, the comments you leave and the polls you vote on, and what's on the other end of the result. I was going to say all that. But I'm watching these come in and I don't think that room exists anymore. I don't think most of you are going to hear this any differently than you heard anything else today. It's going to get processed and scrolled past, and some of you are going to clip the part where I talk about the murderer and post it with your own take, and that's just what this is now. So look, I'm not talking to you anymore. I'm talking to that one person. I don't know who you are, but you're at the hesitation right now. You're sitting across from someone real. A girl, a friend, your mom, whoever. And the feed is pulling. The comments are scrolling, and the pool is climbing, and everyone is pushing you towards something, and there's this voice. It's your voice, the real one, saying don't. Jackson had that moment on a date with a girl he actually cared about, with a future sitting right in front of him. He had a few seconds where the person he used to be pushed back, and he chose the feed. And everything after that, everything I just told you, came from that one decision. So if you're there right now, where you're gonna be, or when you are, choose the person in front of you. Put the glasses down. Close the stream. And look at them. Actually look at them. That's it. That's all I got. One voice, one ask. I don't think it's enough. But Jackson taught me that. This is heartbreaking. I'm so sorry, Noah. Prayers for the families. I can't stop thinking about this. I watched Jackson, but I never voted for anything bad. You can't blame the audience. He made his own choices. Yo, I only watched for the funny stuff. I had no idea it was real. This isn't on us. One guy did this. One guy. How are we supposed to know? The faces were different. It looked fake. Yo, this kid's aura is toast. Bet you won't go visit him inside. Show us where the couple lived. I'll drop tokens. MPC check on the families. Laugh my ass off. Yo, has anyone seen Jaden Dares? That dude is going crazy right now. His demon unlocks are insane. Jaden's way more fire than Jackson ever was, TBH. Follow at Jaden Dares if you want some real NPC checks. Jackson was mid.