Finding Xyaa's Social Media

"Hey, Mark," Ronan said when the call connected, "You got the social media for that singer the dean's bringing to the function?"

"Yeah, hang on," Mark replied, his voice muffled like he was chewing something. "She's on SnapSphere. Username's just 'GraceOfficial.' You'll find her easy. Verified, orange hair, and sexy."

"SnapSphere?" Ronan asked.

"Yeah, okay I'm doing some work, Later, man."

The call ended, and Ronan remembered that SnapSphere is app, similiar to instagram of his old world.

The app's logo popped up—a bright blue circle with a white camera icon. He logged in with his rarely used account, the screen loading slowly. He entered "GraceOfficial" and hit search.

Her profile loaded, and the first thing he saw was her picture. A beautiful woman stared back at him—orange hair framing her face, bright and bold, her bare shoulders visible against a plain background. Her skin looked pale, almost white, under the camera's flash. Ronan leaned closer, and scrolled down to her posts.

He froze, his breath catching. Every picture was bold—short skirts barely covering her thighs, tiny shorts that hugged her hips, tops that only wrapped around her breasts, leaving her stomach and shoulders bare. Some posts showed her in dresses, but they weren't modest but thin fabric, low necklines, slits up the sides revealing long legs. Then there were the bikini shots. Not simple ones but strings tied around her chest and hips, barely hiding anything, her body exposed except for the smallest patches of cloth. One photo had her posing on a beach, water dripping down her skin, the bikini top just two triangles held by thin ties.

Ronan blinked, stunned. He hadn't expected a college to invite someone like this for the annual function. Leaning back, he rubbed his eyes, the blue light stinging them. He clicked her follower count—over ten million. Curious, he opened her following list. Zero. She didn't follow anyone—not a single star, friend, or brand. He frowned and checked her followers and he didn't saw any verfied user following her either.

That was strange. No connections at all?

He needed more. He opened a browser and searched "Grace singer debut," then plugged in his earbuds to listen to her songs. For three hours, he scrolled, clicked, and listened, piecing her story together. What he found shocked him.

Grace was Xyaa. The same Xyaa he'd spent the night with at the hotel.

He stared at a post from her debut four years ago—age 22, same as him now. Her hair was black then, her light brown skin warm under stage lights, nothing like the orange-haired, pale figure on SnapSphere today.

Her first song, "Hold the Dawn," was a worldwide hit—soft, emotional, with a simple guitar riff he could still hum. She'd signed with a major label, and early photos showed her in modest clothes, long skirts, loose tops, nothing flashy. But as he scrolled forward, year by year, the change was clear. Bit by bit, her outfits shrank, knee-length dresses turned to thigh-high ones, then to shorts and string bikinis. Her skin got whiter too, maybe makeup or filters, until she barely looked like the girl he'd met. He looked through online and found it that whenever she got on the stage or anything, she used makeup all over that body to make herself fully white.

He pulled out his earbuds and played her songs on repeat. "Hold the Dawn" was great—clean vocals, a melody that stuck. But everything after?

Weak. Catchy beats with shallow lyrics, autotuned to death, forgettable the second they ended. Her career had peaked early, then fizzled. He dug deeper and found a link to a private community—"Grace's Inner Circle." It cost fifty bucks a month to join. He didn't sign up, but the preview thumbnails told him enough—premium pictures, probably her in even less clothes or not at all, sold to fans who'd pay for the privilege.

Ronan sighed, shutting his phone. He leaned back, and ran a hand through his red hair.

Confusion churned in his gut. Xyaa or Grace wasn't who he'd thought.

The girl at the bar had been calm, confident, not some desperate attention-seeker. But this? The slow slide from modest to barely-there clothes, the private pics, the fading music. It painted a different picture.

He grabbed his notebook, flipping to the songs he'd been working on.

First, a peaceful one—slow, sad, perfect for the graduation function. It had soft chords, lyrics about leaving and looking back, a farewell that'd hit the crowd right in the chest. Second, an upbeat rock song—fast, catchy, with a driving beat and words about living loud. He'd scribbled them both out, humming the tunes in his head. Now, he had to pick one for her.

Which Xyaa was she? He saw two possibilities.

One: her career was tanking. The private pics, the shift to revealing clothes. It could mean she was short on cash, desperate for attention. In his old world, he'd seen it before, artists who started strong, then faded, clinging to fame any way they could. Stripping down got eyes on you fast. If that was her, the peaceful song fit. She could sing it like she did "Hold the Dawn"—raw, real, a return to the start.

Two: she loved this. The attention, the bare skin, the millions watching. It might be her thing now. That night at the hotel, she'd been bold, unbothered, asking him to join her without blinking. Maybe she thrived on showing off, on the rush of being wanted. If that was true, the rock song was better, loud, wild, a match for the Grace on SnapSphere.

He didn't know which it was. If they'd just talked at the bar, he'd lean toward the first—she'd seemed grounded, not fame-hungry. But then they'd gone to the hotel, fucked like it was nothing new for her, and she'd even said, "I don't usually let guys stick around this long." That hinted at the second. Someone who lived for the moment, the spotlight, the thrill. To be honest, the second possibility was more likely true since if it's just because attention she showed her skin, then there was no need to spent a night with some guy.

Ronan looked at dark sky—black, dotted with stars, the campus lights blinking below. "Should I just prepare both songs?" he muttered, tapping his pen against the notebook.

Maybe he could figure her out by what her fans liked. He reopened SnapSphere and sorted Grace's posts by popularity. The top ones were recent—bikini shots, a video of her dancing in a crop top and shorts, her orange hair flying. Comments flooded in: "Hot as hell," "Marry me," "Drop more pics!"

Her music posts—clips of her singing—sat lower, barely half the likes. "Hold the Dawn" was still up there, but her newer tracks tanked.

So, her fans wanted the skin, not the songs. Did she? He couldn't tell. He closed the all again.

Next time he saw her, at the function, probably, should he address her Xyaa or Grace?