KARA

It started small.

A thread on X (formerly Twitter) from an anonymous account: “This guy scammed my cousin out of $500. Beware of ‘Cass.’” Then another girl quote-posts it: “Omg same, he made up this elaborate story about being stuck overseas. Same pics. Same name.”

I saw it before Cass did—of course I did. I always see it before anyone else.

It’s like muscle memory now. Years in PR rewired my brain. The moment I saw that thread, I scanned it like an old war map—screenshots, usernames, timestamps. Half a dozen posts in less than an hour. The algorithm was already eating it alive.

I didn’t think. I just moved.

By the time Cass opened his door—sweatpants, confusion, bed hair—I was already halfway to combustion.

“You… good?” he asked.

I shoved past him, laptop in hand like a weapon. “You’re trending,” I said. “Not in a good way.”

He blinked at me. “What?”

I spun the screen toward him.

He read it slowly at first. Then faster. “What the hell is this? I never spoke to these people.”

“I know.” I dropped my bag and started pacing. “It’s a catfish. Someone’s been using your pictures and pretending to be you on Tinder and Instagram. They’re DMing women, spinning stories, asking for money, ghosting them. Rinse and repeat.”

He leaned against the counter, rubbing his temple. “How do you know it’s not just girls I ghosted who are bitter?”

“Because I found the guy.” I turned the laptop again—another tab, another profile. “He’s our catfish. Lives in New Jersey. Uses a VPN, but I traced the burner number he uses on CashApp. It’s the same message in every scam. Word for word. You’ve got a copy-paste Casanova walking around with your face.”

Cass let out a slow, ragged breath. “Holy shit.”

His panic was real. I could see it. That’s when I softened a little.

“I can help you draft a statement,” I told him. “Clear your name, redirect the narrative. Own the frame.”

He looked at me for a long second. “You’d do that for me?”

“I already started.”

A few hours later, the video went live.

Cass, on camera, sincere for once: “Hey. I just found out someone’s been impersonating me online. If you’ve been messaged by someone asking for money while using my photos—it wasn’t me. I’m deeply sorry to anyone who was hurt. We’re investigating and reporting everything. Please stay safe out there.”

The comments were split, as always. But the reposts helped. The framing worked. People started seeing him as a victim of identity theft. Sympathy started edging out cynicism.

I watched it all from my phone in the back of a café. He was on a call with Eli. He sounded calmer now. Less rattled. Less performative.

He was still Cass—sarcastic, cocky—but there was something else, too. Grateful. Humbled. And that surprised me.

He listened.

I told him how to fix it, and he listened.

But one detail still gnawed at me.

Could Kevin have been the one texting Kira?

I had to know.

So I messaged him anonymously: “We need to talk. About Cass. About my sister.”

At first, he played dumb.

Then: “Look, I never messaged your sister. I didn’t scam anyone under 21. I have standards.”

My stomach twisted.

“What about Kira?” I typed.

A pause.

“That name doesn’t ring a bell.”

I believed him.

And I hated that I did.

I closed my laptop, heart pounding.

If Kevin didn’t talk to Kira… then maybe Cass really was himself when he messaged her.

But now, everything’s blurred.

I helped Cass. I defended him. Sat on his couch. Helped him breathe through panic. Let him open up to me.

And the worst part?

I liked it.

That’s what scares me.

Because trust was never part of the plan.

And now… it’s growing roots.