Iranian Relief Fund board meeting. Sean was checking his phone under the long conference table. No notifications.

Roya, their director, looked tired. “Donations are down again.”

“OFAC,” Kamran said. “The sanctions. Banks won’t process transfers to Iranian organizations.”

Sean looked up. Leaned forward. “What about Bitcoin?”

Kamran laughed. “You and your Bitcoin.”

“It’s censorship-resistant. No bank can block it—”

“It’s a scam, Shayan.”

“It’s not—”

“It’s internet money for criminals.”

“It’s a protocol—”

Roya held up her hand. “Shayan. We’re not doing cryptocurrency. Too risky. Next item.”

Sean sat back. Nodded once.

Fine.

“Actually,” he said, like he’d been waiting for his turn. “While we’re on fundraising. The Instagram campaign from last quarter?”

Shadi perked up. “Oh, we got great numbers on that.”

Kamran pulled up his tablet. “27,000 impressions. Very high engagement.”

“How much did we spend?” Sean asked.

“$1,200.”

“And how much did we raise?”

Kamran scrolled. “$180. Four donations.”

Silence. The fluorescent lights above them hummed.

Sean stood. Walked to the monitor. Docked his laptop.

“You spent $1,200 to raise $180.”

“But the impressions—” Shadi started.

“Were mostly bots.” Sean pulled up his first slide. “Forty percent of digital ad impressions are fraudulent. Fake accounts. Software. You paid Instagram to show your ad to robots.”

Kamran frowned at his tablet. “The report said—”

“The report Instagram sent you. The one they want you to believe.” Sean clicked to the next slide. “When was the last time you watched an Instagram ad?”

“I skip them,” Kamran admitted.

“Everyone skips them,” Shadi laughed.

“Right.” Sean looked around the table. “So why would anyone watch ours?”

“If it’s good?” Shadi offered.

“Maybe.” Sean pulled up an article. “But here’s the best part. Meta suppresses content about Iran. Automatically. Their algorithm flags it as politically sensitive.”

Roya sat up. “They censored us?”

“Shadow suppression. You paid them $1,200 to show your posts to fewer people than if you’d posted organically for free.”

“That’s—” Shadi looked at Kamran. “Can they do that?”

“They’re Meta.” Sean rolled his eyes.

Roya rubbed her temples. “So what do we do? Try TikTok?”

“No.”

“Facebook?”

“Every platform does this. Instagram, Facebook, TikTok—they all take money from both sides and deliver nothing. That’s the business model.”

“Then what’s the alternative?” Roya asked.

Sean clicked to his next slide. “Make something people actually want to share.”

He walked them through it. Organic content. Trending sounds. Hashtags. Platform-specific formatting. Real work.

Roya didn’t blink. “And who is making these videos?”

“We ask younger volunteers,” he said. “The diaspora community. People who understand these platforms. We treat it as real volunteer work. Help them build marketing skills.”

Roya looked at Kamran. Kamran looked at Shadi.

“Let’s pause on ads,” Roya said. “We’ll start recruiting next month. Shayan, thank you for your research.”

Kamran closed his tablet. “Yes. Merci, Shayan.”

The meeting moved to budget review.

Sean closed his laptop. Unplugged it from the monitor.

His hand moved toward his pocket. Stopped.

Maya helped him win that. And she’d never know.

20 minutes later.

Sean walked into a very loud Union Market. Coffee, hot oil, and AC struggling to keep up with the late spring heat.

He spotted Nima saving two seats at a long communal table.

“Shayan!” He stood and pulled him into a quick hug. “There he is.”

“Hey.”

Nima sat back down and slid a drink toward him. Condensation running down the bottle. “You look like you just came from a meeting.”

“I did.”

“Of course you did.” Nima flipped his phone face-down on the table. “I’m off. For one hour. If someone crashes a van, they can call me after.”

Sean sat. Let himself breathe for the first time that day.

Nima looked him over. Raised an eyebrow. “Where are you?”

“I’m here.”

Nima waited.

“How’s business?”

Nima exhaled. “Good. Busy. We’re making a lot. Too much. I need to figure out some stuff for taxes this year.”

“Buy Bitcoin.”

“I knew you’d say that.” Nima brushed him off. “Actually, I was thinking about a Deep Creek rental property. We’d be able to go a few times a year and the rest of the time it would pay for itself.”

Sean sighed. “You know what I’m gonna say.”

Nima leaned back. “Real estate is a solid investment. And I can actually use it.”

“Yeah use it, repair it, pay unexpected increased taxes on it—”

Nima shrugged. “At least I can touch it.”

Sean snorted. “That’s exactly what makes it more of a liability than investment.”

Nima laughed. “You sound like my accountant.”

“Sounds like a good accountant.” Sean leaned back. “You keep telling yourself it’s passive income. Then you spend all your weekends at Lowes.”

“Lowes is part of the dream,” Nima said, deadpan.

Sean shook his head. “My dream is boring. I want money I can hold and ignore.”

“You and your Bitcoin.” Nima sat up. “Hey! How was Vegas?”

Sean shook his head. “It messed me up.”

Nima blinked. “A conference?”

“Not just the conference.”

Sean ripped the paper coming off his bottle.

Nima’s eyebrows went up. “Was there a girl?”

Sean swallowed. “Maybe.”

“And?”

Sean’s jaw tightened. “And nothing. It was Vegas.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It means I’ll probably never see her again,” Sean looked away. “It was just harder than I thought to come back to this world.”

“Everything ok?” Nima asked.

Sean lifted his hand. Small wave. Stop.

“I’ll grant you mercy this one time and drop it.”

A group nearby burst into laughter. Someone held up a phone, replaying a clip. Full screen. Sound on. Everyone leaning in.

Nima nodded toward them. “I gotta show you my latest reel. It hit 11k views.”

“11k O-K!” Sean pretended to dust off Nima’s shoulders. “Congrats man. So well deserved. Of course I’ve seen it. You looked great.”

Nima pretended to blush. “I used to get like 800 impressions max. But I think I’m finally cracking the code on how to go viral.”

“What’s the secret?” Sean leaned in.

“Videos. It’s gotta be. TikTok is so popular,” Nima said. “Full screen. Single video. Full attention. If you can engage them, you’re connecting almost as if you’re in person. A photo can’t do that.”

“That’s an interesting theory. Short text definitely can’t do that.” Sean’s eyes narrowed like something in his brain had started moving.

Nima clocked it, smiled, and stood up.

“Nope. Not yet. Food first.”

16 minutes later

“Okay. Changing the subject. I have an idea.”

Sean braced.

“When’s the last time you swiped?”

Sean blinked. “I don’t know.”

“Six months?”

“Maybe.”

Nima pretended to be offended. “Catch like you? Let’s get you out there.”

“I’m enjoying the peace.”

Nima reached across the table. “Hand it over.”

“Nima—”

“Summer is here. Time to live.”

Nima held out his hand and just waited.

Sean hesitated.

Unlocked his phone. Handed it over.

Nima reactivated Sean’s very old dating profile.

“There.” He slid the phone back. “You’re back on the market.”

Sean put the phone in his pocket.

Nima nodded once. “Eat.”

They ate.

Sean’s phone stayed in his pocket.

Dating app active.

Unopened.

Two days later.

Sean was sitting alone in a row of empty, dusty cubicles. The steam from his tea escaping from his thermos.

He typed an email.

Subject: RE: New Ticketing System Proposal

Good Morning Yvette and team. Hope everyone had a great weekend. Checking in on the decision here. We presented this proposal six months ago. Any update on next steps?

Best, Sean

Sent.

A head popped over the cubicle wall. Denise.

“Still waiting on that?”

“Yeah. Impatiently.”

“I remember your presentation was really good.” She leaned against the entrance. “I’m sure they’re giving it the consideration it deserves.”

The tone landed.

“Why do they always drag this shit out?” Sean inhaled the cardamom steam from his thermos. “We’re trapped in a time warp in this building.”

A loud Teams notification popped up.

Sean’s nervous system shook.

“Lunch later?” she asked.

“Yes. Please.”

“Happy in-office mandatory Monday!” She waved. Walked back to her own empty row of cubicles.

He inhaled one more time. Read the screen.

Luis Morales: R u free?

He wondered that too.

43 seconds later.

Sean walked into Luis’ office.

“Please tell me you brought it.” Luis stood up from his desk, hopeful.

“Finally.” Sean tossed over a ‘Viva Las Vegas’ plastic bag. “Sorry about last week.”

Luis pulled out a Backstreet Boys concert tee. “Jessica’s gonna love this.” He reached for his phone. “Venmo work?”

“Whatever works.”

Luis tapped his screen. Frowned. “Ugh. It’s saying I hit my weekly limit.” He looked up. “Can I bring you cash?”

Sean opened his mouth. Closed it.

“What?”

“Nothing. Cash is fine.”

“I’ll hit the ATM at lunch.”

“No rush. I know where you work.” Sean winked.

Luis put the shirt back in the bag. Set it aside. Sat down slowly.

“Sean.” His tone shifted. “Your osTicket presentation was excellent. They agree we need to modernize. But they’re going with ServiceNow.”

Silence.

“Since when?”

“Yvette just called me.”

“How much is the contract?”

Silence.

Sean shot up from his seat.

“How much?”

“Five million dollars.”

“Mine was $280,000.”

“Someone upstairs has relationships with ServiceNow. It’s done.”

Sean stared out the window. At the other federal buildings and the Capitol in the distance.

Luis leaned back. “We’ll get them next time. At least they agreed to modernize. And you’ll still lead the design. This is still a win. Your win.”

“Lucky me.” Sean rolled his eyes. “We are wasting five million dollars. Not even waste. This is abuse of taxpayer funds.”

Luis closed his eyes and held up his hand. “Let’s not go that far.”

“We never do.” He looked out the window again. Took a deep breath.

Luis opened a desk drawer.

Pulled out a bumpy envelope.

“Maybe not the best time to give this to you.”

Sean stared at it.

“But congratulations on fifteen years.”

They both laughed. But it wasn’t funny.

“You’re a great public servant. We’re lucky to have you.”

Sean pulled out a pin from the envelope.

He stared at it.

Fifteen years.

“Here’s to six more days of annual leave a year!” Luis shouted as Sean headed out the door.

Sean looked back and forced a smile. He was definitely taking tomorrow off.

11 hours later.

Sean was on the floor, back against the couch. Laptop in his lap.

The Silicon Valley theme started playing.

He paused the TV.

His eyes went back to his laptop. A Nostr feed open on his screen.

Sean made a ghost account last week. A blank slate.

He wanted to be anonymous. Free.

He was enamored with Nostr. Learning random but interesting things. No ads. No “suggested for you.” No bait. Just people sharing.

A thread about self-custody led to a podcast about key management.

A debate about relays sent him to a blog about censorship resistance.

An argument about zapping culture linked to a three-hour livestream he watched in full.

Nostr didn’t keep him in the app. Or even the protocol. It sent you everywhere.

That was new.

Tonight he felt ready.

He typed: #grownostr

The feed shifted.

Debates. Arguments. Vision posts. “How do we get the next billion users?” “We need better UX.” “We need to stop rebuilding Twitter.”

He looked up. Way too late.

He kept going anyway.

The next night.

Same spot. Silicon Valley on mute. TikTok in hand.

A video about why ancient Roman concrete is stronger than modern concrete. The kind of thing Sean loved.

He went to the comments.

“This is my Roman Empire.”

“I’ll never NOT scroll on a video about concrete”

“I BUILT THIS FYP BRICK BY BRICK”

He stared at that last one.

They thought they were training the algorithm. They were proud of it.

But they didn’t own any of it.

TikTok could change tomorrow. Get banned. Wipe everything. All that work — gone.

He thought about Nima. “Full screen. Single video. Full attention.”

He thought about the thread. “Stop rebuilding Twitter.”

He closed TikTok. Opened Nostr.

Switched to his real account. The one Maya set up.

21 sats in the wallet. The first Bitcoin anyone had ever sent him.

No notifications.

Uploaded a photo.

Opened a draft note. Started typing.

Replying to: “We need to stop rebuilding Twitter. We should be building what comes next.”

Respectfully. No one uses Twitter.

It’s a dying model.

We should be courting TikTokers.

TikTok has a billion users. 170 million in the US alone. The market has spoken.

Full screen. Vertical. One video at a time.

That’s what people want. Instagram copied it. YouTube copied it. Even Netflix tried it.

And TikTokers believe they’re escaping censorship. Silicon Valley censorship.

Meta felt like surveillance. X felt like rage bait. TikTok felt like freedom.

Here’s the tragic part.

TikTok’s algorithm isn’t magic. It’s trained by its users. A billion people doing free labor to make it smarter.

There’s a comment TikTokers leave on posts they love:

“I BUILT THIS FYP BRICK BY BRICK.”

They’re not passive scrollers. They curate their feed. Spend thousands of hours building something that feels like theirs.

But it’s not theirs.

Not the feed. Not the followers. Not the content. TikTok can change the rules any time. Get banned. Wipe the data. All that work? Gone.

And the payouts? A joke. The formula changes constantly. No transparency. Creators complain every day.

Users want to reward content they love. Directly. Instantly. Without a platform taking a cut.

Imagine all those people experiencing Nostr. Experiencing zaps. Real ownership. Real payments. Real freedom.

What would that mean for adoption?

I humbly think… this is the way.

#grownostr

He read it twice.

Posted it.

Set his phone down. Stared at the ceiling.