Lena didn't mean to find it.
She was looking for her jacket.
That was all.
Asher's presence had a way of bending space—doors where there shouldn't be doors, corners that felt deeper on the inside. She'd learned not to ask questions she didn't want answered.
But when she pulled open the wrong door—
The air changed.
Colder. Sharper. Like the moment before a migraine.
"What's this?" Lena asked.
Asher went still.
Too still.
Floating in the dark was a screen of red light, semi-transparent, pulsing faintly like a living thing. Lines of text scrolled slowly, methodically.
Names.
Hundreds of them.
Some were crossed out.
Some were circled.
Some glowed brighter than the rest.
"Close it," Asher said.
Lena stepped closer instead.
"These are... people," she said slowly.
Influencers. Actors. Musicians. Activists. A few journalists.
Some had vanished in spectacular scandals. Others had simply disappeared—burned out, broken, forgotten.
Her chest tightened.
"This is a list," she said. "A schedule."
Asher didn't answer.
She turned to him. "These are the people who fell."
"Yes."
Not denial. Not justification.
Just truth.
"You said my downfall wasn't personal," Lena continued, voice tight. "You said it was balance."
"It is," he replied. "Attention accumulates. Pressure builds. Something has to give."
"And you decide what breaks?"
"We manage probability," Asher said. "Human attention is volatile. We guide it."
Lena laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You package it."
His eyes darkened. "You're alive because of it."
"That's not an answer."
Her gaze snagged on a familiar name.
She stopped breathing.
"Why is my mother on this list?"
The red light flickered.
Asher looked away.
That was enough.
"You promised you couldn't lie," Lena whispered.
"I'm not," he said. "She's not scheduled."
"Then why is she here?"
"Because she's adjacent," he replied. "Because the system tracks proximity."
Lena's hands curled into fists. "Remove her."
"I can't."
"Try."
"I can't," he repeated, sharper now. "This list isn't mine."
"Then whose is it?"
The silence stretched.
Too long.
"The Board," Asher said finally. "They oversee influence. Media. Algorithms. Cultural correction."
Lena stared at him. "You're telling me Hell has a boardroom."
"Yes."
"And this—" she gestured at the list "—is content planning?"
His jaw tightened. "It's risk management."
She stepped back, breathing hard.
"And what happens when someone reaches the end?"
"They fall," Asher said. "Publicly. Completely. Enough to feed the system."
Her voice dropped. "And me?"
Asher met her eyes. "You weren't supposed to last this long."
Something in Lena hardened.
Not fear.
Focus.
"So what," she said quietly. "I'm entertainment?"
"You were leverage," he admitted. "A case study."
"And now?"
His gaze softened, just a fraction.
"Now you're a liability."
She smiled.
Slow. Sharp. Unafraid.
"Good," she said. "Because I just found my reason to keep going."
She turned back to the list.
"How many of these people did you watch fall?" she asked.
Asher didn't answer.
"How many did you help push?"
Still nothing.
She faced him again. "If I'm on this list..."
"You are," he said.
"...then I'm not going quietly."
Asher swallowed. "If you challenge the Board—"
"I know," she said. "I fall."
She stepped closer, eyes burning.
"But you said it yourself."
He held her gaze.
"I wasn't supposed to make it this far."
Somewhere, deep beneath the city, something ancient shifted.
Because the moment Lena Park decided to fight back—
She wasn't just risking her downfall.
She was threatening the system that fed on it.