Her digital life.
A ridiculous, overexposed mess.
And unfortunately now, my mess.
Enzo barges in. “She’s settling in,” he says. “Still protesting, of course. Loudly. But she’s not throwing furniture, so I’m calling that progress.”
I nod once. “She’s asking questions. Quicker than I expected.”
He shrugs. “That’s not a bad thing. At least we know what she’s thinking.”
“Not yet. But it could be.”
"You don't usually bring people here. Not like this."
I raise an eyebrow. "People?"
"Loose ends. Witnesses."
I take a sip of the scotch. Savoring the slow burn. “She’s not just a witness. She’s a variable.”
"Because she's beautiful?"
"Because she's unpredictable," I say. "And unpredictability, when you know how to use it, has a purpose."
He lets out a laugh. "Sure, let me know how that works out for you."
He leaves without waiting for a response, and I’m alone again with only the glow of her curated existence on the screen as company.
Her latest draft post is still open. A selfie, not yet published. Flirty caption. Sunlight angled just right. All illusion. All performance.
I switch to the raw video. The one she doesn’t know holds the moment everything went to hell.
There it is, the blurred background, the flash of a face, the gleam of a weapon where it never should’ve been. She captured it all without even trying. A girl and her phone, blowing open a network I spent years protecting.
I watch the footage again, listening to her voice fill the room, upbeat and oblivious.
No signs. No warnings. Just glitter and oblivion.
And a split second that changed everything.
The video pauses and her tone fills the speakers, bubbly and animated. She was so unaware. I listen to it again, trying to hear something I missed before.
Some warning or a sign.
Nothing.
Just her playing it up for the camera while both of our worlds implode right behind her.
A knock at the door this time is softer. Not Enzo's firm rap. Hesitant before the door opens.
It’s her.
She stands in the doorway, breathing hard, her expression a mix of frustration and something sharper underneath. Guilt, maybe.
"I got lost," she says. "Well, technically, I was trying to find a way out. An exit, a window, anything that didn’t feel like a trap. But surprise, this whole place is a maze of emotional torture. Like a five-star asylum. Too many damn hallways that go absolutely fucking nowhere. How the hell do you live here? It’s a goddamn nightmare. Worse than an escape room. At least in those places, there’s always someone who can unlock the door from the outside."
"You're supposed to be in your room," I tell her.
