I went to the prison.
Not for Sloane. For me.
The visiting room was beige. Plastic chairs. Vending machines. Guards at the doors.
Sloane came in wearing orange. No makeup. Hair pulled back. She looked smaller than on screen. Younger. More human.
She sat across from me. Picked up the phone on her side. I picked up mine.
"Mara."
"Sloane."
Silence.
"I know you don't want to be here."
"No."
"I asked because—" She stopped. Looked down. When she looked up, her eyes were wet. Real wet. Not performance. "Because I need to say it. To someone who won't forgive me."
I waited.
"I didn't think you'd die. That morning. When Dorian texted. I said film her. I thought it was funny. I thought—" She shook her head. "I didn't think."
"You didn't think."
"No. I just wanted content. I always want content. It's like a sickness. Everything is content. Every moment. Every person. Every—" She stopped. "I didn't mean for you to die."
"You commented 'lol' on the video."
She flinched. "I know."
"Under a burner account. So no one would know it was you."
"I know."
"You knew he was married. You knew I existed. You didn't care."
She was crying now. Real tears. Ugly crying. The kind that doesn't look good on camera.
"I didn't care. About anyone. Just myself. Just the numbers. Just the next post, the next like, the next—" She wiped her face with her hand. "I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm just saying I know. I know what I am."
I looked at her. Really looked.
"You sold your followers' data. Two million dollars. People who trusted you. Who bought what you recommended. Who thought you were their friend."
"I know."
"You're going to prison for years."
"I know."
"How do you feel about that?"
She laughed. Bitter. Broken.
"Scared. Angry. Relieved."
"Relieved?"
"Relieved I don't have to post anymore. Relieved I don't have to smile. Relieved I don't have to be her." She looked at me. "You don't understand. It's exhausting. Being her. Every day. Every post. Every comment. You have to be perfect. Always. And you're not. You're never perfect. But you have to pretend."
I didn't say anything.
"I used to think about disappearing. Just walking away. Letting her die. But I couldn't. The contracts. The deals. The money. Everyone depended on me." She wiped her face again. "Now I don't have to be her anymore. She's gone. Dead. And I'm just—" She gestured at herself. "This."
I sat back. Looked at her.
"I'm not going to forgive you."
"I know."
"I'm not going to tell you it's okay. It's not."
"I know."
"I'm going to walk out of here and go back to my life. My job. My apartment. My cast iron pan. And you're going to stay here. And then you're going to prison. And that's justice."
She nodded. Crying still.
"But I came," I said. "Because I needed to see you. Not as a villain. Not as a meme. Just as a person. And now I have."
I stood up. Put the phone down.
Through the glass, she mouthed: "I'm sorry."
I walked out.
The parking lot was hot. Sun in my eyes. I stood there for a minute. Breathing.
My phone buzzed. Julian: "How'd it go?"
I typed back: "She's human. That's worse."
His reply: "Coming home?"
I looked at the word. Home. My apartment. My city. My life.
"Yeah," I typed. "Coming home."
I drove back. Not to Julian. To my place. Showered. Changed. Went to the kitchen.
The cast iron pan was waiting.
I made steak. Medium rare. Ate it standing at the counter. Watched the city through the window.
My phone buzzed. News alert. Sloane Parrish pleads guilty. Ten years federal prison.
I kept eating.
Another buzz. Dorian's sentencing confirmed. Nine years state prison. No parole for five.
I finished my steak. Washed the pan. Put it away.
My phone buzzed again. Julian: "Dinner tonight?"
I thought about it. Then: "Come here. I'll cook."
His reply: "On my way."
I smiled. Just a little.
Then I went to the fridge and pulled out another steak.