Light returned like an indecisive sunrise.
Smoke still lingered in the air.
Leo stood beside me.
The crowd was filming our collective confusion—
and right in the middle of that mess, the voice came back.
[AVA: Mission status updated. Chaos level: excellent.
Audience reaction: euphoric.
Destruction impact: significant.]
"That was destruction?" I asked.
[AVA: The humans are cheering.
Cheering is a symptom of moral instability.
Outstanding performance.]
"Great. So we can stop now?"
[AVA: Negative.
The target remains beloved.
Please increase dosage.]
"How beloved?"
[AVA: He's being rehabilitated in real time.
The opposite of your assignment.]
I glanced at Leo.
Reporters were shouting for statements.
Someone started another livestream.
AVA sounded like she was reading a recipe.
[AVA: Suggested method of escalation: leak incriminating material.
Searching Celeste-Vega archive.]
"I just want out of this world. So yes. Leak whatever. I don't care."
[AVA: Consent detected.
Found: Email thread 'GhostTrack Agency' – subject 'Song Purchase Rebirth'.
Authenticity: questionable.
Impact: high.]
"Do it."
The LED wall flickered—emails, names, amounts, logos.
The crowd gasped.
Leo blinked.
He turned to me, whisper-hissing.
"What… is that?
Have you completely lost your mind?
Why is your company logo on it?!"
I looked closer.
Bottom-right corner: 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.
Screenshots went viral before the leak even finished loading.
And then the unbelievable happened.
Leo lifted his hands, eyes wet.
"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 redemption.
World stability rising.
Absurd.]
He stood there bathed in golden light, a pop-ballad messiah.
The audience roared while my countdown ticked mercilessly on: 69:52:33.
[AVA: Mission outcome: reversed catastrophe.
You humanized the target.]
"That's… good, right?"
[AVA: For him, yes.
For us? A tragedy.]
— • —
The applause sounded like a slow-motion accident—
too loud, too genuine, too dangerous.
I stumbled backstage into a cramped tech room filled with cables and half-dead energy drinks.
A young assistant shut the door behind me, staring like she'd trapped a wild animal.
"Miss Vega… that was… brilliant?"
"What?"
"That performance! The leaks, the confession—goosebumps! You're a genius!"
I looked at her like she'd just declared the Earth flat.
[AVA: Recommendation – nod.
Increases survival rate.]
I nodded.
"Exactly," I said tonelessly. "Genius."
She ran off to tweet about it, no doubt.
I collapsed into a chair that had already survived three burnouts.
[AVA: Current status: chaos successfully monetized.
Leo Heaven hailed as authentic; Heaven Entertainment rebranded as innovative.
Mission: temporarily failed.]
"I'm too successful to be evil. That's sick."
[AVA: Welcome to capitalism.]
The door flew open.
Director Cain burst in—CEO smile, shark eyes.
"Celeste!" he shouted, delighted.
"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"
"Come again?"
"That whole stunt—the leak, the confession, the tears! PR gold!
We just needed someone chaotic enough to make it look real.
And you—"
he patted my shoulder like he was giving me an award,
"—you sold authenticity like a religion."
He really believed it.
"You think that was planned?"
"Of course! Or are you telling me you didn't intend to leave your own logo on the leak?"
"I… uh…"
[AVA: Suggestion – say yes.]
"Yes! Of course. Authenticity. For… impact consistency."
"Impact consistency?"
"Truth only works if it feels real."
Cain grinned.
"Excellent. I'm putting that on a T-shirt."
He leaned forward.
"But tell me—why didn't you brief us?
Even Leo looked genuinely shocked—and that was the magic!
That raw reaction! Pure gold!"
I searched for words.
[AVA: Calculated chance of logical answer = 0%.]
"I… wanted to preserve authenticity."
"Fantastic!" he cried.
"You get it! Modern PR is about sincere chaos!
You're a genius, Celeste!"
He turned to leave.
"Rest up. Tomorrow we build on this. We'll call it Project Rebirth."
"Rebirth?"
"The title of his song—the one you just resurrected. Genius, right?"
Door closed.
I sat there.
[AVA: Analysis – your accidental honesty has been reclassified as strategic brilliance.
The world loves you now.]
"I just want to sleep."
[AVA: Agreed.
Sleep pauses mission time.
But expect further misunderstandings upon waking.]
I dropped my head onto 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 caffeine brought her back from the dead.
Instead, waking felt too gentle, as if the world had found its dimmer switch.
Pillow. Bed. Linen that cost too much to feel human.
Disinfectant mixed with cheap lavender.
Someone had tucked me into the high-society version of a hospital.
"AVA?" I croaked.
[AVA: You were moved by security to the VIP recovery suite.
Recommendation: rest.]
"Who carried me?"
I looked down. Still wearing last night's dress, half-unzipped, one heel missing.
On the nightstand: a glass of water and a card.
For Celeste — From Production.
Flawless handwriting. Too professional.
[AVA: Addendum – Assistant Mira and two security officers handled transfer.
No damage.
Minor data input during sleep: Micro-PR-Patch 'Authentic Rest' installed.]
"What the… Micro-PR-Patch?"
I sat up. Neck cracking, brain lagging.
Outside, faint echoes of camera noise—the city applauding a version of me I didn't authorize.
The card had one more line in smaller letters:
We archived your performance. Sleep well. — Cain.
I looked at the card, the bed, the one lonely stiletto on the floor.
Something felt off—not just time, but context.
[AVA: Optional comment – sleep is an efficient panic suppressant.
Side effect: other people redefine it as serenity.]
I pressed my fingers to my temples. "Mira?" I called.
No answer—only the hum of the AC.
I fixed my dress, searched for my phone.
Blank screen.
Only one small icon burned into the corner: AVA.
I exhaled.
The mission was still running.
The world was still loud.
And I had seventy hours left—hours that only moved when I didn't sleep.
"Then let's destroy him properly," I said.
[AVA: Finally, a constructive attitude.]