Nova Reyes didn't do "offline."
Her world existed in pixels, light, and sound—the soft hum of her ring light, the perfect angles of her feed, the quiet satisfaction of a new follower count flashing green. Going offline felt like stepping into silence after years of noise. And Nova hated silence.
But Eli Nwoko was silence—walking, breathing silence.
He didn't post. He didn't scroll. He didn't even *check* his FameScore, and when she'd asked about it, he'd shrugged like it was some kind of joke.
"It's just a number," he'd said.
For Nova, that sentence might as well have been in another language.
Yet here she was, sitting beside him on the edge of the school courtyard, notebook open, trying to explain her latest project.
"So…" she began, chewing on her pen cap, "my media studies topic is: *What happens when you film the unfilmable.*"
Eli turned his head, one eyebrow raised. "That's not ominous at all."
She grinned. "It's not supposed to be. It's about perception—how the camera changes the subject just by looking."
He stared at her for a moment. "And you want me to be… the subject?"
"Well, yeah." She tapped the side of her tablet. "You're kind of perfect for it. You don't post, you don't care about your score, and no one really knows who you are. You're like…"
"An urban legend?"
"I was going to say *a ghost in the algorithm*, but sure."
He chuckled quietly, the sound soft but real. "Nova, you do realize filming me might break your entire brand, right?"
She tilted her head. "Then maybe it deserves to be broken."
The way she said it surprised even her.
He looked away, scanning the campus—the rows of solar trees, the students gliding by on hoverboards, their lenses glowing faintly with live filters. Nova had spent years blending into that world, mastering it. Eli seemed allergic to it.
Maybe that's why she couldn't stop watching him.
"Fine," he said at last. "I'll help you with your project. But on one condition."
She blinked. "You're in? That was easier than I thought."
"Condition first."
"Okay, shoot."
He leaned forward slightly, voice low. "No cameras in my house. No live feeds. No tracking."
Nova frowned. "Then how am I supposed to film?"
"Find another way."
She studied him, curiosity flickering behind her smile. "You're weird."
"Thank you," he said, deadpan.
She laughed, and for a moment the tension between them melted.
---
The first session didn't go how she expected.
They met at the abandoned greenhouse behind the east wing, a place the algorithm never mapped because no one checked in there anymore. The air smelled like old soil and sunlight. Vines had pushed through the cracks in the glass.
"This place is… rustic," Nova said, brushing off a bench before sitting.
Eli shrugged. "It's quiet. No cameras, no trackers, no one listening."
"Except me," she teased.
He smiled faintly. "Exactly."
She set up her small handheld cam—an old model with no live connection, just pure offline recording. It felt strange to her, like using a typewriter after living on holograms.
"Okay," she said. "Just talk."
"About what?"
"About anything. What it's like being… you."
He hesitated, then sat opposite her, folding his arms. "Being me is just existing without broadcasting it."
"That's depressing," she said lightly.
"It's peace."
Her camera lens blinked red once, then steady. Recording.
Eli looked directly into it, unblinking. "You ever wonder who's watching you, Nova?"
"Of course," she said. "That's the point."
He shook his head. "No, I mean—not your followers. *Really* watching. The kind that doesn't show up on your feed."
Nova frowned, lowering the camera. "Okay, spooky talk again. What is it with you and paranoia?"
He smiled. "You asked what it's like being me."
"Fair."
They fell into easy silence. The kind that wasn't heavy this time. Birds fluttered somewhere above. The sunlight broke through in fractured lines across Eli's face, catching the faint scar near his jaw.
Nova tried to act professional, but her hands were shaking slightly as she adjusted focus.
"Do you ever miss being… seen?" she asked suddenly.
"I'm still seen," he said. "Just not measured."
She tilted her head. "That's actually kind of poetic."
"Don't quote me on your stream," he warned.
She smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it."
---
By the end of the week, Nova had four offline clips—each one different. Eli reading. Eli sketching something she wasn't allowed to see. Eli laughing once when she tripped over a root. It wasn't content in the normal sense. It was… *real.*
When she watched them later, alone in her room, they felt different from her usual videos. No filters. No score counters. Just him—and the air between them.
And that's when she noticed something odd.
Her follower count had dropped.
Just a few at first—barely noticeable. Then dozens. Then hundreds.
At first, she thought it was the algorithm recalibrating. It happened sometimes when influencers went quiet. But by the third day, the drop became exponential.
10.1 million.
9.6.
8.8.
She refreshed her stats, panic creeping in.
Her posts were still up, engagement still high on the last few. No reports, no flags. Nothing wrong. And yet the number kept bleeding out, line by line.
By midnight, she called Eli.
He answered on the second ring, voice calm as ever. "Nova?"
"My followers are disappearing," she said. "Literally disappearing. I haven't posted anything new, but my metrics are falling like I've been shadowbanned."
"Maybe you've finally gone offline," he said dryly.
"This isn't funny!"
"I'm not laughing."
There was a pause. She could hear faint static behind his voice, like wind through wires.
"I think it's connected," he said quietly.
"Connected to what?"
"Your project. The camera. Maybe you filmed something you shouldn't have."
Her skin prickled. "You mean you?"
"I mean the space around me."
"That's… vague."
"It's safer that way."
She exhaled sharply. "You sound like Mr. Halden."
Silence. Then: "He talked to you?"
She froze. "Wait—you know him?"
"Everyone who's seen too much does."
Nova rubbed her forehead, frustrated. "Okay, seriously, you two need to stop talking like you're in a thriller movie."
"Maybe you're just not ready to see what kind of movie you're in."
She hung up before she could answer.
---
The next morning, she opened her app again. Her FameScore had dropped from **7.9 to 6.2.**
That wasn't possible. Not unless the system had flagged her content.
Her feed was eerily empty—comments disappearing, follower bubbles vanishing mid-refresh. It was like people had been erased, not unfollowed.
She stared at the screen until her reflection appeared faintly over it, her eyes looking hollow and distant.
Then she remembered what Eli said during filming:
*"Some people aren't meant to be seen."*
She turned her camera toward herself and hit record.
"Hey guys," she said softly. "I think I broke something."
Her voice trembled, but she kept talking, trying to sound calm. "You might not see this, but if you do—don't look for me online for a while. I'm fine. Just… figuring things out."
She ended the recording.
But when she checked the gallery—there was no new file.
Nothing had saved.
Just like Eli's first clip, gone the moment she tried to replay it.
She sat on her bed, staring at the blinking red light of her offline cam. It blinked twice—then stopped completely.
And somewhere in the distance, her phone buzzed once with a new message.
**[Unknown ID]: "You're not supposed to film him."**
Nova's heart skipped.
Then the message disappeared.
Not deleted—*vanished.*
And for the first time in her life, Nova Reyes realized she wasn't trending anymore.
She was *missing.*
---