Oh dear, what have you done?
Tom couldn’t let it rest. The name had settled in his brain like an itch he couldn’t scratch, a whispered secret clawing at the back of his mind. Valerie. A ghost on the internet, an absence where there should have been presence. He had spent years in the public eye, knowing that a name—even the most obscure—always left a digital footprint. But her? She was nothing. A void. And that only made him more desperate to find her.
He sat in the dim glow of his laptop, muscles still aching from the injury that had sidelined him, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Searching for “Valerie Cumberbatch” led nowhere, a maze of unrelated profiles and long-forgotten articles. His breath hitched slightly. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for—proof of her existence? A glimpse of the person Benedict had so casually mentioned?
His fingers tapped restlessly against the keys before he tried a different approach. Still, nothing. No industry articles, no crew interviews. Just static.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. Maybe she was a myth, a private entity who had managed to do the impossible—stay invisible in an age where everything, every face, every breath, was cataloged online.
x x x x x
The first day back on set arrived sooner than expected. His ribs still ached when he moved too quickly, and his shoulder burned if he so much as extended his arm the wrong way. But he gritted through it, the need to get back into rhythm outweighing the pain.
Between takes, he found his moment. Benedict was nursing a cup of tea, script balanced on one knee, when Tom sidled up, voice low but laced with purpose.
“So, your daughter.” Benedict barely looked up. “Good morning, Tom.”
“I tried to find her online.”
That got a reaction. Benedict smirked behind the rim of his cup, setting it down with deliberate care. “And?” Tom huffed, crossing his arms despite the twinge in his ribs. “Nothing. It’s like she doesn’t exist.”
“That’s because you’re searching for the wrong name.”
A pause. “What name should I be searching for, then?”
“Valerie Kaine.”
It hit like a puzzle piece snapping into place. Benedict, ever the enigma, continued smoothly, “She works in special effects for the BBC. Lives in London. Spends half her time with her nose buried in books, the other half knitting things she’ll never wear. And she curses my name whenever it rains because she got my curls.”
Tom processed the information, mind cataloging every detail. Valerie Kaine. A professional alias. Clever. Smart. And now he had a lead.
x x x x x
He wasn’t stalking her. Not really. Just…investigating.
Late one evening, he typed her name into Instagram, half-expecting nothing. But there she was. Verified. Almost a million followers. Her feed was a quiet tapestry of literature, soft lighting, and behind-the-scenes snapshots of practical effects—a bloodied prosthetic hand here, a charred corpse there. She had a penchant for gothic aesthetics, for the dramatic contrast of ink against skin. Fascinating.
And, as fate would have it, she was live. Tom hesitated for only a moment before tapping in. It took precisely three seconds for chaos to erupt.
Valerie, mid-discussion about some obscure novel, froze. Her eyes flickered to the chat, then widened, mouth parting in something between a gasp and a choke. "No. No, no, no, this is not happening."
Her hands flew to her temples, panic flickering across her features. "WHAT IS TOM HOLLAND DOING HERE? AM I HAVING A STROKE? IS THIS REAL LIFE?" The chat detonated.
“TOM HOLLAND JOINED??”
“THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”
“WHAT IS GOING ON?!”
Tom leaned back, saying nothing. Just watching.
Valerie, on the other hand, was spiraling. “I—no. Absolutely not. I need a moment.” She inhaled sharply, shaking her head like a malfunctioning robot. "Do you understand that I have posters of you? Or had. Past tense. I have ascended. This is my villain origin story."
The internet, predictably, lost its collective mind.
Twitter trended within minutes. Screenshots spread like wildfire. Theories ran rampant. Did they know each other? Were they secretly dating? Was this an elaborate publicity stunt?
Meanwhile, Tom just sat back and watched the world burn, grinning to himself.
And then—he followed her.
The second his name popped up under her followers list, the internet detonated.
Theories turned into conspiracies. Was she working on a secret Marvel project? Was this a soft launch of some kind of relationship? Did they actually know each other, or was this a fever dream that had spiraled out of control? Fans dissected old interviews, searching for any hints that Valerie and Tom had crossed paths before. Some were convinced they had proof, pointing to blurry convention photos or red carpet events where they might have been in the same building at the same time.
Meanwhile, Valerie’s Instagram comment section became a warzone. Her latest post—previously a harmless picture of a foggy London street—became ground zero for hysteria. Fans across the globe speculating if Tom and her were dating, if they were working on a movie together or if they simply were friends somehow.
“TOM HOLLAND JUST FOLLOWED YOU.”
“WHAT DOES THIS MEAN??”
“CONFIRM OR DENY.”
Valerie, for her part, did not respond. Likely still recovering from the initial shock. Tom, true to form, remained silent. Letting the world run circles around itself while he sat back, amused.
He hadn’t even said a word to her. Not a single word. But the entire internet was already breaking.
And yet, the internet had alreadydecided their fate.