Chapter 2

The next day, the Clarks summoned me to their Upper East Side apartment. The doorman, who used to sneer at my worn-out Converse, now gave me a polite, if strained, nod. The Clarks were my adoptive family, the ones who took me in after the hospital mix-up. They kept me because my early film competition winnings helped them through a financial crisis. They kept me because I was their "genius daughter," a good story for their socialite friends.

Now, their real daughter was back.

Madison was sitting on a plush white sofa, looking every bit the part of the long-lost heiress. She was charming, beautiful, and radiated a counterfeit warmth. My adoptive parents, Richard and Eleanor Clark, fussed over her, their faces alight with a pride they never showed me.

"Chloe, darling," Eleanor said, her voice dripping with false concern. "We heard you pulled your film from Sundance. Is everything alright?"

"Creative burnout," I said, my voice flat. "I need a break."

Madison looked at me, her eyes wide with fake sympathy. "Oh, that's such a shame. I was so looking forward to seeing it."

And then I heard it again, that voice in my head, her inner monologue.

System, what's her angle? Is she onto us?

Negative. Subject Chloe Evans shows standard signs of artistic anxiety. Her withdrawal is not a strategic threat. Your position as the superior talent remains secure.

Good. Annoying little charity case. I can't wait until they kick her out for good.

I kept my face a perfect mask of tired indifference. I understood everything now. She wasn't a genius. She was a parasite with a supernatural search engine. A system that let her see three days into the future of creative content. She had no talent of her own; she could only copy, and poorly at that.

I excused myself, claiming a headache. In the hallway, I pulled out my phone. My hands were shaking, but my purpose was clear. I didn't call my agent.

I called Leo Martinez.

"Leo? It's C.C. We need to talk. Has anything strange happened with your new single?"

There was a pause on the other end. Then, his voice, tight with disbelief. "C.C.? How did you know? Some troll just posted a garbage demo of my chorus on SoundCloud. Said I stole it from them."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Don't release your song. Pull it. I'll explain everything. And there's someone else we need to call."

An hour later, the three of us sat in a quiet corner of a Greenwich Village cafe. Me, Leo, and Anya Sharma. Anya's face was pale. She'd just found a blurry, badly cropped version of her new photo series on an anonymous blog, posted three days ago.

We stared at each other, the same impossible story in our eyes.

"I died," I said, the words feeling heavy and absurd. "I jumped from the Queensboro Bridge."

Leo nodded slowly, his hand subconsciously touching his throat. "They cornered me outside a gig. Madison's fiancé and his friends. They crushed my larynx. I never sang again."

Anya held up her hands, her long, elegant fingers trembling. "Same guys. In an alley. They broke my hands with a pipe. So I could never hold a camera again."

The air grew thick with the ghosts of our shared past. We weren't just victims. We were survivors. We were reborn.

"She has a system," I explained, my voice low and urgent. "It lets her see three days into the future. She finds our work right before we release it and posts a crude copy first. That's her power."

Leo's eyes, usually full of musical melancholy, now burned with a cold fire. "So she's a fraud."

"A complete fraud," I confirmed.

Anya leaned forward, her gaze sharp and intense. "A three-day window. That's a weakness. A limitation."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across my face. "Exactly. And we're going to use it to set a trap."