Fame changed texture under pressure.
It stopped being soft.
Stopped being decorative.
It hardened.
Aria moved through the city surrounded by attention—not guards.
Cameras.
Phones.
Recognition.
A thousand small witnesses with imperfect angles.
"They can't touch you like this," Noah said.
"Too many records."
"Not records," Aria replied. "Reflections."
Every interaction left traces.
A smile caught in a fan's video.
A passing comment clipped and shared.
Her route reconstructed in real time by strangers who meant no harm.
Armor made of noise.
Internally, risk models updated.
DIRECT ACTION: PROHIBITIVE
COLLATERAL VISIBILITY: EXTREME
"They don't calculate ethics," Noah said.
"They calculate fallout."
A shadow followed her for three blocks.
Not close enough to confront.
Not far enough to ignore.
Three phones caught it.
One posted.
The shadow vanished.
"They're still watching," Noah said.
"Of course," Aria replied. "But watching isn't control."
She stepped onto a small stage that night—unscheduled.
No script.
No handlers.
Just a microphone and a room full of people.
"I'm grateful," she said simply.
"For being seen."
Applause rolled—not loud, but steady.
Fame wasn't protection by itself.
It was amplification.
And amplification turned every move into a risk—for those who preferred darkness.
Aria stepped down, calm and unafraid.
"Armor doesn't make you invincible," she said later.
"It just makes attacks expensive."
And right now, the system couldn't afford the cost.