Ace sat alone in the back room of the summit hall, lights off, the blue hue of his tablet screen casting shadows across his sharp features. Data poured across the screen—viewership numbers, cross-platform metrics, emotional resonance analytics from the last five Indie Web events.
It all pointed to one conclusion: Liam's vision was working. But just barely.
"Kara's move changes everything," he thought grimly. Stratacast wasn't just corporate—it was war-tech in the skin of art. Project Persona could manufacture stars with precision, predict virality before it sparked, and own every outcome.
Ace rubbed his temples. His job wasn't to outcreate Kara.
It was to outthink her.
He looked at the digital blueprint of Indie Web's expansion plan, then modified it. More nodes. More guild collaborations. Strategic leaks. Grassroots mobilization. A cultural coup disguised as a content movement.
But even as he typed, doubt crept in.
Is this what we wanted? Or what we've become?
Then, his screen buzzed. A direct message from Rhea, untraceable.
"I miss what we were before all this. Tell him that, if you can."
He stared at the words. Saved them. Didn't reply.
There was no room for the past in the empire they were building.
The End of POV