In the year 2050, the world had become a curated feed of what people wanted to see. They didn't give a damn, they didn't give a fuck. They were always in their world, a digital echo chamber where fame was a product and adoration a commodity. The idol was a perfect reflection of their collective fantasy, an icon of effortless beauty and manufactured talent.
The fans didn't see the long hours, the restricted diets, or the cameras that documented every waking moment. They only saw what they wanted to see, never caring for the truth.
The machine itself was fueled by this selective vision. Algorithms dictated every song, every outfit, every carefully choreographed move. The company, the managers, even the idols' own families—they were all part of a system that consumed its creations, demanding constant perfection until the inevitable breakdown. And when the product began to crack, when a blemish appeared on the flawless façade, the world didn't seek the truth. It simply moved on to the next.
But in this world, there was a fatal flaw. The system was designed to see every idol as a product, a symbol without a soul. It never considered that some people, trapped within its gears, might feel, might break, and might eventually fight back.
It never considered that a new language of connection, one that spoke not of perfection but of truth, could be learned by those who had been forced to live only for others. And that language, in its purest form, was the only thing that could ever break them free.