Elián's video hit a million views in six hours.
By morning, it was everywhere.
News outlets called it "performance protest."
Critics called it "a brilliant meta-commentary on surveillance culture."
But Elián didn't care about the headlines.
He cared about the comments.
The ones that said:
"I thought I was crazy. I've seen those mirrors too."
"My sister disappeared after joining a dance company. This is her."
"They're watching us. I can feel it."
Cassian was quiet.
He hadn't spoken since the video dropped.
He was in the archives — the real ones — digging through old tapes.
He found one labeled:
"A.V. — Final Session"
He played it.
Ava sat in front of the camera.
No makeup.
No costume.
Just her.
"If anything happens to me… don't let them turn me into a story."
She looked straight into the lens.
"I'm not your tragedy. I'm not your muse. I'm not your ending."
Cassian's hands trembled.
He whispered, "I'm sorry."
Elián received a message.
No name.
Just a number.
And a voice memo.
"You don't know the whole story. But I do.Meet me at the old conservatory. Midnight. Come alone."
Attached: a photo.
A girl.
Dark hair.
Same eyes as Ava.
Caption: "Her sister. Alive."
That night, Elián stood outside the conservatory.
The windows were shattered.
The doors chained.
But a single light flickered inside.
He stepped through the broken glass.
And heard a voice.
"You're not the only one who's been performing."