By midnight, the hashtag #BodyguardOrActress had outgrown the internet.
It wasn't just trending — it was everywhere.
TV anchors debated it on live broadcasts.
Late-night comedians joked that she "dodges fame like bullets."
Brands tried (and failed) to capitalize, releasing perfumes called 'Fearless Femme' and energy drinks with slogans like "Taste the Lane."
But Aria Lane didn't post a single thing.
And somehow, her silence was louder than every headline combined.
At 3:07 a.m., her account hit one million new followers.
No post. No caption. No livestream.
Just the quiet, terrifying magnetism of a woman who'd outwitted television, the government, and the undead — with a frying pan.
💬 "She hasn't posted in days and I'm still checking hourly."
💬 "This silence is marketing genius."
💬 "I think I'd follow her into war. Or brunch. Either works."
In her dim apartment, Aria lay on the couch, scrolling through her notifications.
She looked tired — not physically, but in the way someone looks when they've seen too much noise.
Her manager called again, his voice shaking with excitement.
"Aria, you hit ten million total! Do you realize how insane that is? The entire planet's watching you!"
Aria sighed. "That explains the migraines."
"Every brand wants you! Every film studio's begging for a deal!"
"Tell them to pay me in food."
"Aria—"
"Relax," she said, stretching lazily. "Fame is just surveillance with better lighting."
Her manager didn't laugh. "You should at least make a statement before people start thinking you're—"
"Too late," she interrupted. "They already have."
Across the world, fan communities evolved overnight into organized movements.
They called themselves "The Followers of Lane."
Their symbol: a frying pan drawn over a signal wave.
Their motto: "Stay unseen. Stay strong. Stay fed."
They weren't just fans anymore. They were decoding her old videos, analyzing lighting changes, audio patterns — convinced every pause or word was a hidden message.
And in a way, it was.
At 4 a.m., Aria opened her laptop and quietly logged into a private encrypted channel — the same one she'd built years ago as A-01.
Her fingers flew across the keys.
Command: Reconnect dormant nodes. Activate passive receivers.
Codeword: Audience.
Tiny dots blinked to life on the digital map — thousands of them.
Her "fans."
She smiled faintly. "Welcome back, team."
Meanwhile, the Agency's headquarters was in chaos.
An analyst burst into the command room, pale-faced.
"She's… she's mobilizing civilians."
The supervisor looked up sharply. "What?"
"She's using social media to rebuild her network. Those followers — they're more than fans. They're relays."
The supervisor frowned. "Relays for what?"
The analyst hesitated. "We don't know. She's using our old protocol."
"Track it!"
"We can't. She's masked the data inside trending hashtags."
The supervisor swore under his breath. "She's using the internet like it's her own spy grid."
By morning, new clips of Aria began circulating — old interviews, candid footage, training montages edited by fans with cinematic flair.
Everywhere, her legend grew.
People called her The Invisible Starlet, Agent of Chaos, National Food Security Icon, and — most ironically — Human Wi-Fi.
💬 "She's literally hacking global culture."
💬 "If she asked us to riot, I'd pack snacks."
💬 "The government's terrified of a woman with a pan."
In a surveillance van parked outside her apartment, two Agency agents watched her through a hacked livestream feed.
Agent 1 frowned. "She's just sitting there. Eating cold noodles."
Agent 2 looked uneasy. "No. She's timing something."
They watched as she finished her meal, stood up, and looked directly into the camera — the hidden camera.
She raised her bowl like a toast.
"Bon appétit, boys."
The feed glitched into static.
Noah Hale, watching the chaos unfold on his tablet from an undisclosed base, sighed.
"She's using social media as camouflage," he muttered.
His superior frowned. "You think she's hiding?"
Noah smirked. "No. She's performing. Difference is, she's the only one who knows the script."
Later that day, Aria finally broke her silence.
One post.
One photo.
Her standing in a sunlit kitchen, holding her frying pan like a microphone.
The caption?
"Still cooking."
That was it.
No hashtags.
No explanation.
Just those two words.
And it broke the internet again.
Within minutes, memes exploded:
"Still cooking" = She's planning something.
"Still cooking" = Political metaphor??
"Still cooking" = Literally cooking???"
It trended for 48 hours.
Politicians referenced it.
Professors analyzed it.
One newspaper even titled their front page:
"Aria Lane: Still Cooking. The World's Not Ready for the Next Course."
But behind her calm smile, Aria was indeed cooking — just not food.
She'd hijacked the world's attention and funneled it into her network.
A million followers.
A million receivers.
A million eyes waiting for her next coded instruction.
And the Agency knew it.
💬 "She doesn't need guns or spies anymore. She has Wi-Fi."
💬 "Queen of Digital War."
💬 "Still cooking… world domination."
In the dark glow of her apartment, Aria closed her laptop, the map of blinking nodes reflected in her eyes.
She whispered, almost to herself,
"Let them follow. They'll find out what's really cooking soon enough."
Then she smiled — the kind of smile that meant trouble for everyone else.