Chapter 1 — The Twelve
The internet had always been her refuge.
Not the glossy, curated version everyone else seemed to inhabit, but the quiet corners — the art forums, the late‑night livestreams, the tiny communities where people still spoke like humans instead of brands. That was where she lived. That was where she breathed.
So when her follower count froze, she noticed immediately.
It wasn’t dramatic. No sudden drop. No hateful comments. Just… stillness.
Her morning post — a sketch of a girl curled around a glowing lantern — sat untouched. No likes. No comments. No shares. It wasn’t unusual for a post to flop, but this felt different. It felt intentional.
She refreshed. Nothing. She refreshed again. Still nothing.
Her analytics page loaded slowly, as if reluctant to reveal the truth.
Twelve viewers. Only twelve.
She frowned. She didn’t recognize any of the usernames. They were generic, almost sterile — strings of letters and numbers, no profile pictures, no bios, no history. Just watchers.
She tried messaging her best friend, Rowan.
hey, can you see my posts?
No reply.
She tried again.
Rowan?
Still nothing.
She checked Rowan’s page — it was active, full of new posts, new comments, new interactions. Rowan wasn’t offline. Rowan wasn’t ignoring her.
Rowan simply couldn’t see her.
Her stomach tightened.
She posted again — a short video, just her face, just her voice.
“Morning, everyone. Just checking in.”
She watched the viewer count tick up.
One. Two. Three. All the way to twelve.
Then it stopped.
The same twelve. Always the same twelve.
She tried to comment on Rowan’s newest post. The comment appeared on her screen — but when she refreshed, it was gone. She tried again. Gone. She tried liking the post. The heart lit up, then vanished.
She wasn’t blocked. She wasn’t banned. She wasn’t invisible.
She was contained.
Her posts existed — but only inside a corridor someone had built around her. A hallway with twelve doors. And behind each door, someone was listening.
She stared at the viewer list, at the blank avatars, at the silence.
A chill crawled up her spine.
Someone had taken her audience. Someone had taken her voice. Someone had taken her world.
And they weren’t done.
ns216.73.216.67da2
and then Add to home screen.