The first thing I heard that morning was my own name.
Not in my head. Not from AVA.
From the TV.
"Celeste Vega — the face of a new honesty."
The anchor's voice was rich, the kind that could sell antidepressants.
Behind him, my face ran in slow motion.
I looked like someone who'd crawled out of a burning building and accidentally won the Peace Prize.
[AVA: Statistic — mentions of your name up 8,700%.
Tone: 95% positive, 5% jealous.]
"Can you delete that, please?"
[AVA: I don't delete miracles.]
My phone buzzed. Cain.
"Celeste! Amazing! Are you awake?"
"No."
"Perfect! You sound authentic!"
I turned the TV volume up. A morning host stood before a giant golden screen—my face towering behind her.
The headline: #SaintCeleste — The Woman Who Made Us Feel Again.
I stared at it.
"Ava, that's not my hashtag."
[AVA: Property of the crowd. You belong to the discourse now.]
Cain's voice squealed in my ear.
"New branding! You're not scandal anymore—you're salvation!"
"That wasn't the plan."
"Exactly! Intent kills authenticity! Just keep being yourself—confused and spontaneous!"
[AVA: Suggestion—breathe. Irony can cause respiratory distress.]
I opened the curtains.
Outside—billboards.
My face on LED screens, buses, coffee cups.
Underneath: 'Authenticity is an attitude.'
Brought to you by Heaven Entertainment.
I gripped my coffee. My hand trembled.
"I'm not real. I'm just tired."
[AVA: In this world, those are synonyms.]
"Celeste!" Cain again. "Talk show today! Authenticity Live! You'll ask what it means to be real—and refuse to answer! Mysterious sells!"
"I don't want to be mysterious."
"Perfect! That makes you relatable!"
I leaned my forehead against the windowpane.
Down below, fans waved signs.
One girl held a cardboard heart: 'I cry like Celeste!'
[AVA: Your tears have entered public domain.]
"I'm a subscription-based emotion with a morning segment."
[AVA: And you're trending well.]
— • —
The studio smelled like makeup, electricity, and panic.
A crew member fanned me gently, as if authenticity were fragile.
"Celeste, smile—but sincerely," someone yelled.
I tried to breathe photogenically and failed both at once.
Cain stood near the director's booth, vibrating with vision.
"People, listen! We're not selling image—we're selling truth!"
The producer nodded solemnly. "How much truth?"
"Just enough to look credible, not enough to hurt!"
[AVA: Definition of credibility: tamed honesty.]
I sighed. "Can I at least know the topic?"
"Of course!" Cain grinned. "Cancel culture and responsibility!"
"That sounds like work."
"You just have to be yourself."
"Last time I was myself, someone almost died."
"Yes! And people loved you for it!"
[AVA: That kind of admiration is medically concerning—but profitable.]
The lights came up.
They shoved me onstage into a jungle of cameras and microphones.
"Celeste Vega!" the host beamed. "The woman who proved mistakes aren't weakness!"
Applause.
I sat.
Next to me: Leo.
Polished. Serene. Rehabilitated like a climate sinner after a donation.
"Leo Heaven," the host purred, "how does it feel to give the world hope again?"
"Honestly?" He smiled humbly. "I'm grateful. Without Celeste, I'd never have learned you can't stage authenticity."
I froze.
"I almost poisoned you."
"Exactly! And I'm grateful!"
Audience: "Awwww!"
[AVA: The system adores repentant sinners and charming victims.]
The host turned to me. "Celeste, some call you a modern saint. How do you feel about that title?"
"With disinfectant."
Laughter.
"But seriously," she continued, "how do you stay real in a world that shares everything?"
I looked straight into the camera.
"You stop sharing."
A pause.
Then, thunderous applause.
[AVA: Your resignation has been mistaken for depth.]
I glanced at Leo.
He smiled, perfectly.
I smiled back, imperfectly.
"After the break," the host chimed, "an exclusive look at Celeste Vega's new foundation: 'Feel Again!'—supported by Heaven Entertainment!"
I blinked. "Foundation?!"
Cain waved from the edge of the stage.
"Spontaneous idea! Human, right?"
[AVA: Emotional capitalization successful. Your authenticity now operates tax-free.]
"I don't want this," I muttered.
[AVA: The universe does.]
"I wanted chaos. A scandal. Something real."
[AVA: And instead, you invented religion.]
The applause roared again.
Leo laid his hand on my knee—gentle, calculated.
"The world loves you, Vega."
"Then I'll have to disappoint it."
[AVA: Forecast—you'll try. Result: catastrophic success.]
— • —
The after-show lounge gleamed—glass, champagne, satisfaction.
Reporters cheered. PR teams toasted me as if I'd reinvented compassion.
Cain came charging through, eyes gleaming like a profit chart.
"Celeste! You were brilliant! That foundation idea? Gold!"
"I heard about it ten minutes ago."
"Exactly! Spontaneity! You're the natural resource of sincerity!"
[AVA: Translation—you've been classified as a renewable authenticity mine.]
I tore off the mic. "I'm not a brand, Cain."
"Of course not! You just sell yourself perfectly!"
"I don't sell anything."
"Exactly! That's the genius!"
I headed for the door.
Leo followed, radiating the satisfaction of a man newly reborn.
"Celeste, the Feel Again Foundation will do great things. Finally something lasting."
"Lasting? Nothing lasts here. Not even meaning."
"You're too cynical."
"And you're too marketable."
[AVA: Opposites attract clicks.]
I stopped, turned to him.
"Leo, do you know what the worst part of this is?"
"That we're successful?"
"That it works."
He laughed—his new, humbled, socially approved laugh.
"You make it harder than it is."
"Maybe that's my skill."
[AVA: Confirmed.]
I walked to the buffet—oh, the irony.
A thousand shrimp gleaming on silver trays.
Perfect, again.
I picked one up, looked at it, set it down.
"If everything I do turns out good," I murmured, "I'll need something too big to pretty up."
[AVA: You're planning something reckless. I approve.]
I grabbed a napkin and a lipstick.
Wrote: 'Feel Again — Because pain sells better.'
Slid it into my pocket.
"Ava?"
[AVA: Yes?]
"I want a real scandal. One that makes people shut up."
[AVA: The system will try to monetize even that.]
"Let it try."
I stepped onto the balcony.
Below, the cameras flashed, fans shouted my name.
I raised my glass like a toast.
"You want a miracle?" I whispered. "Then you'll get one."
[AVA: Warning—you always say that right before history malfunctions.]
I smiled.
"Perfect."