"Rip!" "Cut! Cut!" a dozen voices shouted, but one of them sounded wrong—too loud in my head. My wrists burned where ropes bit into my skin. The ropes were supposed to be fake. The camera was supposed to be fake. Fallon smiled at me from three feet away and smiled like she had me already on a leash. "You're doing great, Juliana," Elmer announced, voice syrup-thin. "Keep it raw. The audience likes raw." "Raw," Fallon echoed. "Cry, Juliana. Cry for the cameras." "Stop!" I hissed. My voice was nothing. They kept filming. "Fallon, a little more venom," Elmer said. "Make her look desperate." A light flashed behind my eyes—a memory that wasn't mine. A lab smell, stainless metal, a syringe. I blinked and the ropes tightened with a practiced hand. The assistant leaned in, smiling. "Easy. Relax. This will make you famous." "This will humiliate her," I said out loud. My mouth formed words before my brain fully agreed. Fallon stepped forward, whip coiled in her hand. She flicked it once for the camera. The crew applauded the sound. "Better," Elmer said. "Now harder. Sell it." The whip cracked. The leather dragged across my forearm. It stung. The assistant laughed. "Don't go soft now, Juliana," Fallon murmured. "You owe me." I remembered the face behind the smile. Years of rejected auditions, replaced roles, press that pinned me as fragile. I tasted rage like metal and something else—an alien clarity slicing through my confusion