The early morning mist curled low over the tree stumps, crawling across the field like a dying breath. Elias stood at the edge of the forest, hands clenched, the scent of pine and fuel mixing into something bitter. Behind him, a dozen protesters held signs, their voices tired but determined. The bulldozers had already started lining up. A corporate rep in a stiff blazer was barking into his phone nearby. “two hours,” he told someone. “Clear it. No delays.” Elias felt something crack in his chest. They were losing. He didn’t hear his friend approach. “I did something,” she whispered. “I posted the photo. I tagged her.” He turned to her, brows furrowed. “Who?” “Her. You know. Sera Vale. I was desperate.” Elias blinked. Sera Vale—the most famous singer on Earth? The woman who filled stadiums with nothing but a whisper? “She’s not coming,” he said. “This isn’t her fight.” And yet. two hours later, the distant roar of an engine pierced the tension. Everyone turned. From the treeline, a black motorcross bike emerged like something out of myth. Dirt sprayed, tires kicked, and there she was—Sera Vale, the icon, the ghost, the voice. She wore a black hoodie with a red snake across the chest, its fangs bared as if to strike. Her ripped jeans were coated with trail dust. Blond hair tied back. Soft pink lipstick somehow untouched by the wind. Elias stared, stunned. Without a word, she stepped off the bike, hoisted her guitar from the side holster, and walked calmly toward the machines. “Turn those off,” she called out, voice sharp. “Now.” The workers hesitated. One by one, the engines died. She took a mic from her pack and held it high. “I posted the coordinates an hour ago,” she said. “You might want to look behind you.” Elias turned. From the distant hills, they came—hundreds of fans flooding the fields, carrying signs, phones, banners. Some wept just seeing her. Others screamed. And then she sang. The company rep stared, panicked. He made more calls. Too late. Cameras were everywhere.