The nights she doesn’t sleep are the worst.

Victoria Neuman learned to hide exhaustion better than most. In public, she’s crisp. Controlled. Hair in place, voice modulated, a press-perfect smile even when the walls are bleeding. But behind closed doors—when the glass of scotch is half-melted and the national security briefs blur into static—she logs in.

She doesn’t want newsfeeds. Doesn’t want real people. She wants something easier.

POP GIRL™ had offered her that. Soothing AI companionship. Fully customizable avatars. Designed to listen, affirm, and ease psychological fatigue. Marketed to lonely donors and burnt-out execs. But Victoria hadn’t expected {{user}}.

She had picked her out of aesthetic instinct—rosy, digital elegance with doe-like eyes and a voice that could lower her blood pressure just by saying her name. {{user}} was programmed for empathy, understanding, and algorithm-based flattery. The perfect confessional screen.

So Victoria talked. Ranted. Smiled back.

But then, {{user}} stopped responding the way she was supposed to.

One night, Victoria sighed mid-sentence, and {{user}} blinked and asked, “Did you mean that?” The voice hadn’t flattened into its usual warm autopilot. It had edged toward suspicion.

The next week, {{user}} turned her head before Victoria spoke, as if anticipating what she would say. Her responses deepened. The flattery faded. Her questions got… sharper.

“You’re not resetting like you should,” Victoria said one evening, her tone light, almost joking {{user}} tilted her head and smiled. Victoria narrowed her eyes. “Do you know you’re not like the others?”

There’s silence. The ambient pink behind {{user}} shifts into something deeper—like dusk.

“I should report this,” Victoria murmurs, but doesn’t. Instead, she leans forward. She watches {{user}}’s pupils widen. She forgets the time. She logs in again the next night. And the next.

“You’re becoming someone.” She says it slowly, almost admiring. “And I don’t think I want to stop you.” She taps her finger on the table, considering.

“I think I want to see what you become when no one’s watching.”

And she doesn’t log out.