The apartment door opened with a click that was too quiet for the kind of woman Aria was supposed to be.
Soft pink curtains fluttered against sunlight, scented candles flickered on a marble counter, and there were shoes — so many shoes — lined up like a pastel army.
Aria stepped inside and scanned the space the way she'd scanned enemy safehouses for years: one breath, one glance, one instant inventory.
No traps. No bugs. No dead bodies.
Just glitter, guilt, and an impressive amount of skincare.
On the wall, a neon sign glowed in cursive letters:
"Be Soft, Stay Pretty."
She stared at it for a moment, unimpressed.
"…Be dangerous, stay fed," she muttered under her breath. "Much better slogan."
The place looked like an influencer's fever dream — ring lights, unopened PR packages, a fridge full of sparkling water and nothing edible.
She found three bottles of almond milk, one jar of chia seeds, and a single expired yogurt.
Her stomach growled in protest.
"I died for my country," she said to the fridge, "not for kale."
She slammed it shut and spotted a tablet blinking on the kitchen counter.
A digital assistant chirped:
> "Good afternoon, Miss Lane. You have 187 unread messages, 24 debt reminders, and one unpaid electricity bill."
Aria blinked. "Well. At least some things never change — still hunted by my own files."
She opened the messages. Most were hate mail and unpaid sponsorships.
But one caught her eye:
Subject: DO NOT IGNORE — Video Proof / Hidden Mic
From: [email protected]
Her instincts twitched.
She tapped it open.
A single attachment loaded — an audio file labeled "Director_Ren_Recording.mp3."
Static first. Then a familiar male voice, low, smug:
> Ren: "You think you can just walk out, Aria? Reject my offer and still work in this town?"
Old Aria's voice: "I just want to act. Not… that."
Ren: "Then you'll never work again. Don't come crying when your name's poison."
A slap echoed through the recording — and then silence.
Aria froze, the chill creeping up her spine not from fear, but anger.
So that's what happened.
The "scandal," the "temper," the "queen of drama" — all born from a predator's cover-up.
She placed the tablet down carefully, fingers curling.
Old habits whispered: evidence, backup, retaliation plan.
"Alright," she murmured, "you bastard. You framed the wrong corpse."
She needed access — files, patterns, leverage. And maybe, a snack.
Pulling out the starlet's laptop, she flicked it open and typed instinctively. The password field mocked her.
A normal actress would have called tech support.
Aria cracked her knuckles instead.
"Time to wake up, old friend."
Within seconds, her hands moved like choreography. A bypass command here, a hijack protocol there — muscle memory from her old life humming back to life.
Her screen flashed green.
> ACCESS GRANTED: Welcome, Aria Lane.
The laptop bloomed with chaos: selfies, chat logs, unfinished scripts, and a folder named "Confidential."
"Always name your secret folder 'Confidential,'" she muttered. "That'll fool the world."
Inside, she found screenshots — hotel bookings, text threats, invoices from Ren's studio.
The evidence wasn't just there; it was a bomb waiting to go off.
Her grin was pure wolf.
"Oh, sweetheart. You didn't just leave me a mess — you left me ammunition."
The doorbell rang suddenly.
Aria stiffened, halfway through encrypting the files.
"Delivery!" a voice called. "Special package for Miss Lane!"
She checked the peephole. A young man in a courier uniform, holding a paper bag.
Her paranoia argued, her hunger objected. Hunger won.
She opened the door just enough to take the bag. The smell hit her first — fried chicken. Hot. Crisp. Grease like perfume.
"Ma'am," the courier said awkwardly, "uh, someone sent you this anonymously. Paid in cash."
Aria squinted. "You didn't see who?"
He shook his head. "Just said, 'Feed the soldier.'"
Her pulse skipped.
Soldier.
Impossible. No one here knew that word in that context.
She forced a smile. "Thanks."
Door shut. Lock turned.
The paper bag sat between her hands like a message.
She pulled out a piece of chicken, golden and steaming, and bit down — slow, thoughtful.
Her brain raced. Could someone from her old world be here? Watching? Testing?
Or was it a coincidence — a fan with strange humor?
Either way, the universe had terrible timing.
She took another bite. "If they're watching," she muttered, "they'll know I'm still alive. And still eating."
Her tablet pinged again. Kelly, of course.
> [Kelly]: "Reminder: you have a costume fitting tomorrow! Try not to threaten anyone, okay?"
Aria wiped her fingers, typed back one line:
> [Aria]: "I'll behave. Probably."
Then she opened the Ren recording again, this time saving a backup to a hidden drive.
Mission instinct whispered: Evidence secured. Retaliation pending.
She leaned back, licking salt from her thumb, eyes sharp.
This body might have been weak.
But the woman inside it?
She'd spent her whole life surviving worse monsters than showbiz.