Light came back like an indecisive sunrise.Smoke still hung in the air. Leo stood beside me. The crowd filmed our bewilderment—and right in the middle of it all the voice returned.
[AVA: Mission status updated. Chaos level: excellent. Audience reaction: ecstatic. Your destructive impact: significant.]
I stared into the void. "That was destruction?"
[AVA: The humans are cheering. Cheering is a symptom of moral instability. Excellent.]
"Great. So we can stop now, right?"
[AVA: Negative. The star remains popular. Increase the dosage, please.]
"How popular?"
[AVA: He is being rehabilitated in real time. The opposite of your assignment.]
I glanced at Leo. Reporters screamed for statements, someone started a livestream, and AVA suddenly sounded like she was reading a recipe.
[AVA: Suggested method to maximize damage: leak incriminating material. Searching Celeste-Vega archive.]
"I just want out of this world. So yes. Leak something. Anything. Just finish this."
[AVA: Consent detected. Found: email thread 'GhostTrack Agency' — subject 'Purchase text Rebirth'. Authenticity: questionable. Impact: high.]
"Then release it."
The LED wall behind us flickered—emails appeared, names, amounts, company logos.The audience sucked in air. Leo blinked.
He stepped toward me and hissed, "What… is that? Have you completely lost your mind? Why is your company logo under it?!"
I looked. Sure enough. Bottom right: Uploaded by Heaven PR.
[AVA: Your user account was pre-logged in.]
"Oh my God."
[AVA: Correction: oh my me.]
The crowd exploded. Reporters shouted questions. Screenshots went viral while the leak was still loading.
And then the unbelievable happened.Leo raised his hands, tears in his eyes.
"Yes," he said softly into the mic. "I had help writing. I was under pressure. I wanted to be perfect."
Silence.Then applause.
[AVA: What the hell…]
"He just saved himself, didn't he?"
[AVA: Your sabotage triggered a purification. World stability rising. Absurd.]
I watched Leo framed in stage light like the moral messiah of a pop ballad. The audience cheered while my countdown mercilessly kept running: 69:52:33.
[AVA: Mission outcome: reversed catastrophe. You humanized the target.]
"That's… good, right?"
[AVA: For him, yes. For us? Appalling.]
— • —
The applause sounded like a slow-motion crash—too loud, too real, too dangerous.I stumbled through a side door away from the spotlights into a cramped tech room full of wiring and half-empty energy drinks. A young assistant closed the door behind me and stood there, embarrassed, as if she'd accidentally trapped a wild animal.
"Miss Vega… uh… that was… brilliant?"
"What?"
"That staging! The emails, the confession—goosebumps! You're a genius!"
I looked at her like she'd just announced the Earth was flat.
[AVA: Recommendation — nod. Increases survival probability.]
I nodded. Slowly. Stunned.
"Yeah," I said, toneless. "Genius."
The assistant ran off, probably to tweet something euphoric. I collapsed into a swivel chair that looked like it had survived three burnouts already.
[AVA: Current status: chaos monetized successfully. Leo Heaven is perceived as authentic; Heaven Entertainment as innovative. Mission: provisionally failed.]
"I'm too successful to be evil. That's sick."
[AVA: Welcome to capitalism.]
The door burst open. Director Cain strode in—CEO smooth as a PR blade, eyes glittering with the kind of light that says: I smell money.
"Celeste!" he cried like I was his favorite mistake. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant!"
"Excuse me?"
"That whole thing—the leak, the statement, the tears! PR gold! We just needed someone chaotic enough to make it feel real. And you—" he patted my shoulder like he was handing me an award, "—you sold authenticity like a religion."
I blinked. "You think that was planned?"
"Of course! Or are you telling me you didn't intentionally put your own company logo on the leak?"
"I… uh…"
[AVA: Suggestion: say yes.]
"Yes! Of course. Authenticity. For… impact fidelity."
"Impact fidelity?"
"Yes, you know. Truth only works if it feels real."
Cain beamed. "Fantastic. I'll put that on a T-shirt."
He leaned in. "But tell me—why didn't you brief us? Even Leo looked genuinely shocked—and that was the magic! Raw reaction! Pure gold!"
I searched for words.
[AVA: Calculating probability of a logical answer: 0%.]
"I… wanted to preserve authenticity."
"Fantastic!" Cain crowed. "You get it! Modern PR is about sincere chaos! You're a genius, Celeste."
He turned toward the door. "Rest up. Tomorrow we build on this. We'll call it 'Project Rebirth.'"
"Rebirth?"
"The title of his song—the one you just resurrected. Brilliant, right?"
The door shut behind him. I sat there.
[AVA: Analysis: your accidental honesty has been reclassified as strategic genius. The world loves you now.]
"I just want to sleep."
[AVA: Agreed. Sleep pauses mission time. But expect further misunderstandings upon waking.]
I rested my head on the table between cables and coffee stains. Outside, the world sounded like it was applauding itself.
[AVA: Good night, Villainess. World stability: dangerously optimistic.]
— • —
She was sure she'd fall asleep in the chair—or at least until the assistant injected more caffeine. Instead, waking felt oddly gentle, as if someone had put the world on a dimmer.
First I thought I'd hidden somewhere. Then: pillow. Then: a real bed. Soft. Too soft for a backstage nap. I blinked. Blanket pattern. The scent of disinfectant and cheap lavender. Someone had arranged for me the high-society version of a hospital room.
"AVA?" I whispered, voice still rough from too short a sleep.
[AVA: You were carried by security to the VIP recovery suite. Recommendation: rest.]
"Who carried me?" I turned my head. The pajama wasn't mine—I still had the dress on, half unzipped, one shoe on the floor, the other missing. On the nightstand a glass of water and a card: For Celeste — From Production. Handwriting: too clean, too professional.
[AVA: Addendum: Assistant Mira and two security officers handled the transfer. Your DNA signature intact. During sleep you triggered micro-inputs (Micro-PR-Patch: 'Authentic Rest').]
"Micro-PR-Patch?" I sat up. My neck cracked. My brain tried to sort time like an untidy dress—pieces missing, folds, knots. Outside there was an echo of camera noise, like a distant life.
On the card a second line in smaller print: We archived your performance. Sleep well. — Cain.
I looked at the card, at the bed, at the one stiletto on the floor—and suddenly everything felt a little off. Not just the sleep had paused time; someone had decided Lina Xu should now look as if she'd lain down voluntarily.
[AVA: Optional comment: sleep is an efficient panic suppressant. Side effect: others will reframe your rest. Relevance: high.]
I pressed my fingers to my temples. "Mira?" I called. No answer—only the hum of the AC. I rubbed my eyes and stood. The curtain at the door was half drawn; behind it the stage glowed like a nagging sunrise, ready to swallow me again.
I straightened the dress, looked for my phone—the screen was blank, no notifications, only one small burned-in icon in the corner: AVA. I breathed deep. The mission was still running. The world was still loud. And I had seventy hours left—hours that only ticked when I wasn't asleep.
"Then let's destroy him properly," I said.
[AVA: Finally a constructive approach.]