"Let them come."

The intro was a single, low-frequency hum. No graphics. No theme song. Just Sonya's face filling the frame, pores visible, eyes like cut glass.

The chat exploded. A million emojis, a waterfall of rage and glee. Sonya watched the torrent of reactions on a secondary screen, her face impassive.

"Tomorrow," she told her reflection, "they'll try to buy me. They'll offer studios, distribution deals, a 'rehabbed' image. They'll call it a partnership."

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