Chapter 21 – Viral, Vexed, and Very Much Unclothed
Narrator: Noa thought the gallery incident would blow over, but instead, Reno becomes an internet sensation. He's invited to appear on a popular late-night show that mistakes him for a "performance philosopher." Noa gets dragged into the madness as his manager—against her will. While trying to salvage what's left of her reputation, Noa must coach Reno through a live interview, avoid being canceled, dodge a PR nightmare, and somehow keep him from removing his shirt mid-broadcast. Spoiler: she fails.
---
Noa had a dream.
In the dream, she was floating on a calm lake of espresso, surrounded by silence, alone. Then the espresso turned into paint, the silence turned into screaming, and Reno rose out of the water like a half-naked Poseidon yelling, "ART IS A SOCIAL CONSTRUCT!"
She woke up in a sweat.
And then her phone exploded.
Not literally. But *almost*.
Notifications. Hundreds.
Her inbox: full of requests. Interviews. Collaborations. Sponsorship offers for *Reno*. One email simply said: **"Can he strip in a museum?"**
Another had the subject line: **"Reno for President?"**
Noa slammed her head into her pillow.
"Why," she groaned, "is the internet like this?"
---
Meanwhile, Reno was in the kitchen, shirtless, wearing an apron that said "Kiss the Chaos." He was frying eggs like he was auditioning for a sensual breakfast commercial.
"Morning, my tiny tornado," he said, flipping a pan. "Guess who got invited to *The Late Seat with Marcus Chen*!?"
Noa blinked. "That talk show where everyone gets wine and trauma-dumps on national TV?"
"That's the one! They said I'm 'a refreshing fusion of surrealism and sexuality.'"
"You're a shirtless accident with good lighting!"
"And now I'm also a *brand.*" He winked. "You're coming with me. As my emotional translator-slash-manager-slash-shirt enforcer."
Noa screamed into the fridge.
---
The TV studio was chaos.
Hair stylists buzzed. Producers ran in circles. A guy in a unicorn suit sobbed quietly into a bagel.
Noa sat on a folding chair holding a binder labeled **"Reno's Talking Points (Attempt #3)"**.
Across from her, Reno was getting powdered. He looked weirdly good in a dark velvet blazer and nothing underneath. Noa prayed it stayed buttoned.
A production assistant approached.
"Hi, uh, is this the talent?"
Noa looked up. "That depends. Define 'talent'."
"Is he going to remove clothing?"
"Oh god," she muttered. "Probably."
---
Backstage, Reno bounced on his heels like a golden retriever with an espresso addiction.
"I'm gonna wing it," he said.
"No," Noa hissed, grabbing his collar. "You are going to say three things: 1) Art is for everyone, 2) I am grateful, and 3) I will not get naked on live TV."
"But what if the fourth thing is 'liberation'?"
She glared. "Don't make me sedate you."
He winked. "Kinky."
"I will smother you with cue cards."
---
The stage lights came on.
The crowd roared.
Reno walked out like he owned the building, arms spread, blazer fluttering behind him like a chaotic bat.
Marcus Chen raised an eyebrow. "Ladies and gentlemen… performance artist Reno!"
Applause. Whistles. Someone in the audience fainted. Noa couldn't tell if it was from excitement or fear.
"Reno," Marcus said, "you've been called many things this week: genius, menace, sentient thirst trap. How do you define yourself?"
Reno leaned forward, smiled, and said, "I am the spaghetti in the bowl of existence."
Noa headbutted the control booth wall.
---
It got worse.
Marcus: "Your gallery performance sparked debate online about the intersection of vulnerability and exhibitionism."
Reno: "Exactly. By removing my pants, I removed the walls between us."
Marcus: "Some called it 'brilliant.' Others called it 'pantsless terrorism.'"
Reno: "Both are valid. I contain multitudes. Mostly abs."
Noa scribbled *"Kill me now"* in the margin of her notes.
---
Then came the fan questions.
A virtual screen popped up.
Fan #1: "Reno, will you start a Patreon for exclusive art?"
Reno: "Absolutely. It'll be called 'Paint Me Like One of Your Existential Crises.'"
Fan #2: "Do you have merch?"
Reno: "Coming soon: Chaos Candles. They smell like regret and glitter."
Fan #3: "Are you single?"
Noa screamed internally.
Reno winked. "I'm emotionally polyamorous and romantically confused. So... yes."
The audience erupted.
Marcus turned to the camera. "And there you have it. Reno: the icon we didn't know we needed."
Noa whispered, "The plague we didn't know we deserved."
---
After the show, chaos bled into social media.
#RenoUnfiltered trended in 12 countries.
Clips of him saying "I'm spaghetti" were auto-tuned into remixes.
One TikTok had 7 million likes. It featured Reno doing that accidental split, cut to a song called *"Sketchy Daddy."*
Noa curled up in bed that night with a cup of peppermint tea and a sense of dread.
Across the apartment, Reno was signing autographs on toast.
"Don't," she warned, "eat your own signature."
He shrugged. "Fame tastes like gluten."
---
The next morning, a knock came at the door.
Noa opened it to find a delivery guy with a crate labeled **"Emergency PR Kit"** and a letter from the talk show network.
Inside the crate: one apology bouquet, a legal disclaimer, and a contract offer.
"Please consider joining our season as a 'resident artist duo'."
Noa blinked.
Reno peeked over her shoulder. "Did we just get offered a spin-off?"
Noa groaned.
"Yes."
Reno screamed. "We're going full reality show!"
"No."
"I already see the intro montage! Paint. Passion. Poor decisions!"
She shut the door in his face.
---
That afternoon, they held a "team meeting" at a noodle shop where Reno tried to pay in fan art and got banned from ordering extra chili oil.
Noa opened the contract.
"It's three episodes. One live painting, one relationship segment, and one improv challenge."
Reno lit up. "Improv? Finally, my time to shine."
"You've been *shining* non-consensually since you tore your pants at the gallery."
"I call that: vulnerability couture."
She facepalmed. "Do you understand what's happening? You are becoming a… a *thing*. A *brand*. This wasn't supposed to happen!"
Reno smiled gently.
"Noa," he said, placing a hand on hers. "Nothing about us was ever supposed to happen."
She blinked.
"That… was almost profound."
He leaned in.
"Also, I haven't worn underwear since Wednesday."
She dumped soup on him.
---
Later that night, as she sat on the couch rereading the contract, Reno tiptoed in wearing a fluffy robe and nothing else.
He flopped beside her, legs draped over the armrest like a drunken flamingo.
"So… do we say yes?"
She looked at him.
This chaotic, shirtless, impossible man who lived in her apartment and crawled out of her sketchbook and somehow crashed a dinner, an art gallery, and now national television.
She took a deep breath.
And said, "We negotiate."
His eyes lit up.
"Can we ask for a glitter budget?"
"Go to sleep, Reno."
"But glitter—"
She shoved a pillow in his face.
He mumbled, "Viva la art…" before passing out.
---
The contract sat on the table.
The world outside kept spiraling.
But inside the apartment, Noa realized one very unsettling thing:
She didn't hate the chaos anymore.
She might… actually like it.
Even if it wore lamé pants and answered fanmail at 2 a.m.