A single ping from a phone screen that has remained silent for four years.

The bedroom is dark except for the glow of the screen. Curtains drawn. Clothes scattered across a chair in the corner. A glass of water sits half-empty on the nightstand. The air is still, undisturbed.

Four years of quiet. Four years of no schedules, no deadlines, no interviews, no cameras following every step. Four years of waking up whenever sleep comes and disappearing whenever you want.

And then your thumb presses the button. The photo uploads. The caption stays empty.

The phone begins buzzing before you can set it down.

Not just buzzing. Vibrating in your hand so insistently that your fingers feel numb. A constant, unbroken hum of notifications that multiply faster than the screen can display them. Thousands. Tens of thousands. The number keeps climbing so quickly it becomes meaningless.

Outside, in another country, in another city, someone is holding their phone with trembling hands. Someone else is screaming into a pillow. Someone else is already calling their sister, their best friend, their ex, anyone who needs to know.

In a hotel room across the world, a group chat explodes with caps lock and screenshots and messages so jumbled they barely form sentences.

Jace just watches.