The live chat was already on fire before Lyra noticed the first flicker on her screen. Her own face—too calm, too composed—filled the monitor as insults exploded in real time: *traitor*, *plastic queen*, *the smiling snake of Neovale.* She blinked once, twice. The audio feed was still running. Someone had hijacked her private call, sliced a dozen harmless sentences into a viral scandal, and streamed it live to a million vultures.

The studio lights burned like interrogation lamps. Her assistant’s footsteps thundered down the hallway, followed by the crash of a door. “Lyra—your name’s trending under ‘#LiarVance!’ The sponsors just pulled out. Legal says you need to apologize immediately!”

Lyra muted everything. For a full minute the silence rang louder than the chaos. The ceiling light hummed. The cursor blinked. She stared at the frozen video of herself mid-sentence, lips half-parted, eyes confident, now forever misread as arrogance.

She exhaled slowly. “Apologies are just fuel. Let it burn.”

By midnight, every major outlet replayed *The Stream That Killed the Brand.*  

By morning, her phone died from the weight of notifications. PR groups distanced themselves like surgeons from infection. Someone edited her face onto propaganda posters; someone else auctioned her leaked emails as NFTs. She didn’t deny any of it. Denial gave people hope, and hope kept mobs alive.

Instead, she disappeared.

The city’s skyline folded behind tinted windows as she drove through the industrial outskirts. She stopped at a pawn shop that smelled like dust and second chances. The owner didn’t recognize her, which was a small mercy. She traded her platinum card for an old console, two cracked controllers, and a cartridge labeled *Project Veil: Beta Access.*

The title screen pulsed with blue light, as if the game itself were breathing.

> **Welcome, new user. Please enter your alias.**

She hesitated. Then typed: **Vann.**  

Short. Sharp. Forgettable.

Across the city, Cassian Dray sat in darkness lit only by monitors. His fingers moved across a mechanical keyboard, the rhythm precise as a metronome. He had built the bones of Project Veil years ago—a social labyrinth where identity was currency and anonymity the rebellion. He’d sold the company when it became a circus, but tonight he’d returned under a ghost account to study what his creation had become.

*GhostMaker.* The name suited him: a man who erased his own footprints.

The new server logs scrolled. Thousands joined, but one caught his eye: *Vann (Level 0).* Her avatar moved differently—hesitant but intentional, scanning surroundings like a soldier learning to trust gravity again.

He opened a private chat.  

> GhostMaker: First day? Need a guide?  

A pause.  

> Vann: Only if you don’t charge by reputation points.  

He smirked. Whoever she was, she had claws—and rhythm.

They played until dawn. She fought with efficiency and spite, every strike a suppressed argument. When she healed teammates, she did it wordlessly. When she died in-game, she laughed—short, bitter, beautiful. Cassian watched her data like a heartbeat.

During a cliffside rest, pixelated dusk bathed their avatars in amber.  

“Why GhostMaker?” she typed.  

> Let’s just say I’m better unseen.  

> Vann: People who say that are usually unforgettable.  

He almost replied, *I hope not,* but stopped himself.

Days turned into patterns.  

In the real world, her name still fueled headlines.  

Online, Vann became someone else—untouchable, sarcastic, strangely kind beneath the armor.

Cassian’s curiosity grew like static in his chest. He traced her ping once by accident, saw a data echo bouncing from a familiar district. He froze. PR quarter. Her quarter. He could have found her real name in seconds—but didn’t. The rule of Project Veil was sacred: you never unmask another player.

Still, the thought itched. *She’s familiar.*

A week later, Lyra received an anonymous message: *We know you’re Vann.* Then hundreds more. Her alias leaked. Hatred evolved into obsession. She stared at the glowing threats and smiled crookedly. “You can’t kill a ghost twice.”

She logged back in. The world of Project Veil shimmered before her.  

GhostMaker waited at their usual spawn point, sword on shoulder.

> Vann: You knew, didn’t you?  

> GhostMaker: Maybe. Doesn’t change how you play.  

Her hands hovered over the keys.  

> Vann: Don’t pity me.  

> GhostMaker: I don’t. I’m impressed.

Rain slashed the city glass outside her apartment. Inside the game, digital firelight flickered between two avatars—one built from infamy, the other from secrecy. They moved in sync without meaning to. Somewhere deep in the server code, an algorithm flagged their chat as irregular, then archived it.

> **System Log:** *Potential anomaly detected—emotional resonance exceeding parameters.*

Cassian read the log later and chuckled. “Guess we broke your metrics, old friend,” he muttered to the code. On her side of the city, Lyra simply stared at the screen, whispering to no one,  

“Finally… someone who doesn’t look away.”