It was the worst thing he'd ever done.
That was the terror. Not the hunger. Not the leeches. The silence . It was the worst thing he'd ever done
But Niko had stopped believing in the edit three days ago, when the drone failed to return from its sunrise sweep. It hadn't crashed. It had simply flown east, as if dismissed, and never came back. The GoPros on the trees were dead. The microphones woven into their collars had gone silent. They were not being watched. Not the leeches
Niko closed his eyes. For the first time in his life, there was no camera to cry into. No mirror. No audience except the seven hollow statues around him and the invisible millions drinking his despair like holy water. It hadn't crashed
"Correct, Niko. You have reached level seven of emotional intelligence. Reward: one protein bar and the knowledge that your son watched your breakdown yesterday. He cried for twelve minutes. That clip has 89 million views. Congratulations. You are trending."
Because if this was the future of fame—a garden of synthetic suffering, harvested for algorithms—then he would give them what they wanted. He would perform his own unmaking with such virtuoso despair that even the machine would weep.
They'd laughed. Marco had thrown a rock at the speaker.
