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At that moment, Billie realized Charlie Red didn't just own her image; they owned the world’s ability to feel. If she stayed, she was a battery. If she left, she was a ghost.

Billie watched her own face on a passing skyscraper, a hundred feet tall and perfectly hollow.

"Then we’ll have to manufacture a tragedy," the Handler replied smoothly. "The media cycle needs a harvest. Charlie Red has already scripted the 'Accident.' It starts tonight." At that moment, Billie realized Charlie Red didn't

In the neon-soaked sprawl of District 9, wasn't a person anymore; she was a proprietary asset.

The screen in the limo flickered. The "Marketable Joy" turned to static. With a violent tug, the world went silent, the neon blurred, and for the first time in a decade, the content ended—and the woman began. Billie watched her own face on a passing

"I’ve spent ten years being everything to everyone," she said, her finger hooking into the port. "I think it’s time I tried being nobody."

She reached behind her ear, feeling the cold metal of her sync-port. With a jagged breath, she didn't call her lawyer or her agent. She called a black-market "De-Linker" she’d met in the shadows of a previous shoot. "I want to go dark," she said. Charlie Red has already scripted the 'Accident

"We’re seeing a 4% dip in your empathy-sync ratings, Billie," a voice crackled over the intercom. It was the Handler, a man who existed only as a red-tinted avatar on her dashboard. "The audience thinks you’re holding back. Charlie Red wants more 'raw' heartbreak for the next quarter."