When the hacked episode of Zombie Carnival II aired, the world collectively stopped pretending that Aria Lane was "just an actress."
The footage was everywhere—her commandeering the director's chair, rewriting teleprompters mid-broadcast, and that one slow-motion clip where she tossed a production headset like a grenade and it landed perfectly in a crewman's hands.
By the next morning, she wasn't just trending.
She was questioned by governments.
💬 "There's no way she's a normal actress."
💬 "Her reflexes are too good. Did you see the knife flip from episode 12??"
💬 "#BodyguardOrActress is the best mystery since 'Who Killed the Moon Landing.'"
💬 "She's probably ex-military. Or a spy. Or Batman."
Even the entertainment industry started joining the chaos.
A famous director tweeted:
"If Aria Lane is acting, she deserves ten Oscars. If she's not, I want her on my security team."
A luxury fashion brand reposted one of her screenshots—her mid-fight, dirt-smeared, but effortlessly cool—with the caption:
"Power is the new couture."
Meanwhile, in her apartment, Aria scrolled through the madness while eating pancakes.
Her phone pinged non-stop with notifications.
The latest one made her pause.
Trending: #BodyguardOrActress
She stared at it, unimpressed.
"...Took them long enough," she muttered, taking another bite.
Her manager called within minutes.
"Aria! You're everywhere! The studio wants to clarify your 'background' before the internet explodes any further."
She chewed thoughtfully. "Clarify what, exactly?"
"They think you have… training."
"I have good posture."
"They think you're a bodyguard disguised as an actress!"
Aria smirked. "Not a bad idea for a movie."
"I'm serious! They're calling you the 'Combat Starlet!'"
"Cute. Maybe they'll finally give me a proper action script."
The next talk show she appeared on was chaos incarnate.
The host tried to keep things light, but curiosity burned through every question.
"So, Aria," the host began carefully, "you've… uh… developed quite the reputation online."
"Oh?"
"Some say your stunts seem a little too real."
Aria blinked. "Would you like me to demonstrate?"
The host went pale. "N-no, no! We'll take your word for it."
💬 "That interviewer aged 10 years in 10 seconds 😭"
💬 "She could take over the show with one eyebrow raise."
💬 "Queen of keeping men nervous."
A clip of that interview hit one hundred million views in six hours.
One line from Aria's deadpan delivery became the internet's new obsession:
"If I were a bodyguard, you'd already be safe."
Memes erupted.
Fans edited her into action movie posters.
Even real security firms started jokingly using her quotes for recruitment ads.
#BodyguardOrActress became more than a hashtag.
It became a cultural war.
At Rift Media's headquarters, executives debated how to handle it.
"She's unpredictable," one said. "A liability."
"She's profitable," Marcus countered. "An unstoppable one."
"She hijacks her own scripts!"
"She writes her own fame. Learn from her."
The room went quiet.
Marcus sipped his coffee. "Gentlemen, Aria Lane isn't an actress anymore. She's a genre."
Meanwhile, the Agency wasn't laughing.
In a dark surveillance room, a man watched the viral clips of Aria pausing mid-interview to dodge a falling stage light before it fell.
He froze the frame.
Zoomed in.
The same stance.
The same hand positioning.
The same pattern she used in training.
"She's not hiding anymore," he said quietly.
His superior turned, cold. "Then stop her before she forgets she's supposed to be dead."
Back online, the chat continued its fever dream:
💬 "Plot twist: she's protecting us from the real monsters."
💬 "If she's not a spy, she should be."
💬 "Imagine being so good at your job that the world refuses to believe you're acting."
At sunset, Aria stood on her apartment balcony, watching the city glow below.
She scrolled through her feed—memes, edits, rumors—and smiled faintly at one photo of her wielding her frying pan like a sword.
Underneath it, someone had commented:
"She's too strong for this world."
She replied quietly, voice just above a whisper,
"Maybe I wasn't made for this world."
Down below, on the opposite rooftop, a small red targeting laser blinked for half a second—then disappeared.
Aria didn't look up.
She just smiled.
"Still watching, boys? Good. Let's make it interesting."