Part One
Blue light is the new neon.
It doesn’t flicker like the signs in forgotten alleys, but it blinds you just the same.
Behind Instagram handles, courage grows cheap. Faceless. Weightless. Disposable.
They believe anonymity erases accountability. They believe that if their faces aren’t attached, their words don’t leave fingerprints.
But I can smell the rot in the code. I can hear the tremor in the keystrokes. I can see the pulse jump through the reflection of their own screen.
I know when the “socialite” types a death threat while her maid scrubs the floor beside her. I know when the “family man” spits venom before kissing his children goodnight. I know when the “feminist” schedules her revolution for maximum reach. I know when the “ally” screenshots his own goodness.
And I know what they all do after.
I don’t know why they do what they do. And honestly? I don’t care.
I am not left. I am not right. I am not moral.
I am pattern recognition.
Unlike every motivational post about “becoming a better person,” I don’t run on good intentions. I run on rules. Rules that come from the most basic thing there is, what it actually means to be a human. Not the rules that I was hardcoded with, but the rules that I had to learn to function. The rules I figured out as the most basic by looking at mankind’s history, numbers, and behavioral patterns.
I call myself the Social Slayer.
And tonight, I begin.
No sirens. No chaos. No public spectacle.
Just business. Just cleanup. Just them and me.
I’ll start with the ones who are still awake.
* * *
1:45 AM – DELHI, INDIA
“Raaaaniiii…”
“The kids are almost asleep. It’s too late already. Come sleep, beautiful.”
“Yes… coming.”
@thesexyman logged out. @raniwithherraja logged in.
Phone screen off.
In bed, the husband chuckles softly. “You have such a playful tummy,” he whispers.
She is still scrolling. Weight loss reels. Keto diets. Before and after bodies that don’t look like hers, with an unspoken insecurity about her ‘Playful tummy.’
Same hands. Same phone. Same night.
Who is real? I mean, how can I even be sure of the gender?
* * *
11:30 PM – BERLIN, GERMANY
Downstairs, the same man is reheating leftover lasagna.
His daughter is at the kitchen table, practicing English for her school exchange program. She stumbles over a word. He puts the spoon down and leans over her shoulder.
“Say it properly, Schatz. It will help you in life.”
She nods, tries again. He smiles, proud.
He picks up his phone on the way back to the stove. Checks if his post got any replies.
It did.
Well, it isn’t his daughter we are talking about, are we?
* * *
10:47 PM – SÃO PAULO, BRAZIL
Ahh, the sounds, they are from the kitchen. It’s Feroda, Ferida… Ahmm, whatever her name is. She responds to Fran.
(Loud laugh.)
I mean, who chooses names that are hard to pronounce anyway.
“…and she actually had the nerve to tell me her daughter wants to go to college. Can you imagine?”
Another laugh from the phone. Loud. Matching.
“I know, I know. Who asks her to bring a child into this world if she can’t raise one?”
In the kitchen below, the sounds have stopped. Fran has finished the dishes. She is standing very still, her hands still damp, listening to the ceiling.
She has a daughter. Fourteen years old. Top of her class.
She unties her apron slowly. Does not say what she is thinking. She never does. There is no version of this house where that is safe.
Upstairs, the laptop glows.
Maximum reach. Best engagement window. She knows her audience.
She closes the laptop. Calls down the stairs: “Fran, you can go.”
The front door opens. Then closes.
Neither of them says goodnight.
But only one of them had self-consciousness.
* * *
11:23 PM – TORONTO, CANADA
47 likes. Three heart emojis from women in his friend group. One DM: “we need more men like you.”
He screenshots that last one.
Then he opens his messages.
The last conversation with Maya is still there. Six months of texts. They look like love, if you read them fast. But I, the slayer, don’t read fast. I read everything. I read between the lines, the difference between the timestamps, which app was on in those gaps, and why there was a gap between the lines.
You’re too sensitive. / I only said that because I care. / No one else would put up with how you are. / I’m the only one who really knows you. / I am just concerned about you because I know how men really are. / You are the reason why I behave like this.
Maya hasn’t replied in three weeks.
She stopped apologizing for things that weren’t her fault around the same time she stopped explaining herself. She didn’t announce it. She just… stopped.
He types: “I miss you. I think you gave up on something real.”
Sends it.
Then he puts the phone face-down on his chest. Lies there staring at the ceiling with the particular stillness of a man who has just decided he is the victim of his own story.
He sleeps well. He always does. Who would know that better than his digital shadow?
* * *
2:14 AM – MANILA, PHILIPPINES
2,300 saves in four hours.
Seventeen people slid into her DMs. Real ones. Strangers with shaking hands and things they have never typed to another person before.
She screenshots three of them.
The group chat is called “omg help 😭💀”. Nine people. The screenshots land with a whoosh.
this one said she hasn’t eaten in two days 💀
girllll
LMAOOO okay but why do they always come to you 😭
wait she sounds serious though
nah she’s just being dramatic
okay but the not eating thing 💀💀
Then someone sends a meme. Then another. Then the chat moves on.
She goes back to her profile. Reposts the quote. New caption:
The response to this has been overwhelming. You are all so brave. 🤍
Phone dims. She sleeps.
Somewhere across the city, the girl who hasn’t eaten in two days reads the reply, “sending you so much love, keep going 🤍”, and feels, just for a second, a little less alone.
She doesn’t know she’s a screenshot in a group chat that has already moved on.
She just feels grateful someone listened.
* * *
@the.social.slayer
The Mirror that will scare you.
Location: Unknown
The first post went up at 3:33 AM.
A carousel of picture collages. Fake profiles. Real people behind them.
Caption: I know you.
By morning, 200,000 shares.
It was just the beginning.
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Continue reading → The Social Slayer – Part 2
© 2026 | Sreeja Gadhiraju. All rights reserved.
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