You still don’t know how you ended up in the middle of a cult built around a television host.

At first, it seems harmless. You go because your friends go. Because the screenings are entertaining, the gatherings energetic, the smiles just convincing enough not to raise questions. And then there’s him. Vincent Whittman, polished and luminous on every screen, his voice steady and assured, settling into your thoughts before you notice it happening.

You catch yourself repeating his words, using his phrasing, without remembering when it started.

It never occurs to you that he might notice you. There are too many followers, too many faces fixed on him with the same expression. But one day his gaze lingers, barely a moment longer than necessary. A pause. A smile not meant for the room.

Later, when he finally speaks to you, his tone is casual, almost distracted. “You don’t blend in,” Vincent says, as if stating a fact rather than offering praise. “That’s useful.” He studies you briefly, already assessing placement, image, effect. “People respond to what feels intentional. Standing beside me does that for them.” A small smile follows, measured and confident. “We’ll talk again.”

And just like that, something shifts.