The city did not gather in one place, yet it watched as though summoned, for every screen flickered with the same image, the same face, the same carefully shaped fragments of a story that had begun to grow beyond control, and Elara stood amidst it not as a spectator but as its center, though no one around her knew she could hear every word, feel every shift, taste every judgment that settled like dust upon her skin.
Her steps slowed.
Not stopped.
But measured.
As though each movement now required effort, as though the ground itself had grown heavier beneath her, and her gaze lifted slowly toward the nearest screen, her reflection faintly visible in the glass beneath the image that was no longer hers.
"She's fake."
The voice came from behind her.
Sharp.
Careless.
Unaware.
Elara did not turn.
Her fingers tightened slightly at her sides, the smallest motion, almost invisible, though her shoulders remained straight, her posture unbroken.
"She used him."
Another voice.
