One last like

Amelia lifted a drawing and unfolded it.

"Look, Dad. Mom is coming back."

Yerlan took the drawing. Amelia watched him for far too long.

"Yes," he said.

Without another word, Aigul led Amelia away. Yerlan folded the drawing once, then again, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

That same night, in the production warehouse, Yerlan completed his final preparations.

He stood alone among crates of lighting equipment, cameras, and set pieces. On a table, he placed four participant wristbands. Each held more than a simple tracker: miniature sensors for pulse, temperature, and skin response. The system displayed four profiles on his laptop.

ARUZHAN — CONTROL / GUILT / PUBLIC MORALITY.

ARMAN — AGGRESSION / NARCISSISM / FEAR OF WEAKNESS.

TIMSON — DEFENSIVE HUMOR / FEAR OF SILENCE.

SAYA — DEPENDENCE ON VALIDATION / FEAR OF DISAPPEARING.

Yerlan spoke softly.

"Can you see them?"

"I can see them," the system answered in Dinara's voice.

"Tell me they deserve it."

A pause followed.

"Deserve is your word. I measure reactions."

"No. You're supposed to remember."

"I remember everything you uploaded."

Thousands of comments flooded the screen. At first, individual words remained readable: "Cringe." "Her own fault." "Meme." "Like for the tears." Then the text accelerated, merging into a filthy digital current. The system was learning from hate.

"Pain holds attention longer," the system said in Dinara's voice.

Yerlan closed the laptop wearily.

"That's not what I'm talking about."

He stood and walked away from the table. From inside the closed laptop came a muffled reply.

"I talk like they do."

Yerlan did not hear it.

CHAPTER 2

Star Week

Launch day. A vast studio pavilion blazed with lights, music, cameras, smoke, and a giant STAR WEEK title screen. The bloggers entered to applause from the production crew, each already playing a familiar role. Arman waved at the cameras.

"Mom, I'm on TV! Though she has YouTube Premium, so she sees enough of me already."

Timson performed an exaggerated bow.

"If I die, delete my browser history and my last stand-up special."

Saya smiled, though her hands were clasped tightly together.

"Hi, everyone. I'm really nervous. But I'm here with you."

She formed a heart with her hands. Aruzhan looked calmly into the camera.

"Let's see how honest a show can be when it starts by selling us the truth."

A silence followed. She did not look away. The host stepped into the center of the set.

"Welcome to Star Week! No filters. No editing. No second takes. Just you, the camera, and the love of your viewers."

Yerlan sat at the control desk, the bloggers' faces spread across his monitors. His gaze lingered on Saya. Beside her feed, the system opened an archived photograph of Dinara on its own. It appeared for only a fraction of a second. Yerlan froze, then quickly closed the window.

The first day looked exactly like an expensive reality show: a spacious common room, mattresses, a kitchen with no food, cameras mounted on every wall. Four bottles of water and tiny portions of food waited on the table.

"Now this is what I call hunger. I got more food after filming a detox ad," Arman said.

"Shh. It's a signature diet: rich, hungry, miserable," Timson replied.

Saya picked up a bottle of water but did not open it.

"Are the viewers already watching?"

The host's voice came through the speakers.

"They're watching. And judging."

A ranking appeared on the screen.

Arman — 31% Aruzhan — 27%

Saya — 24% Timson — 18%

"Eighteen? Somebody's rigging this against me. I demand a recount of everyone who understood the jokes."

"Relax, old man. Your audience just goes to bed after nine," Arman said.

Aruzhan studied the cameras.

"That's a lot of cameras for a show that claims to be safe."

"Are you always this much fun?" Arman asked.

"Only when I sign contracts that lawyers will spend months taking apart."

Saya finally opened her water and took a small sip. In one of the black screens, she saw her reflection. For a moment, someone seemed to be standing behind her. She spun around. No one was there.

At their first dinner, tiny portions had been arranged beautifully on the table: a piece of chicken, a few lettuce leaves, water in elegant glasses. Everything looked more expensive than filling. Arman raised one hand automatically, as though photographing his plate, then stared at his empty palm.

"Phantom story syndrome. My hand keeps looking for the button."

"Me too," Saya said. "I keep thinking, I have to film this."

"Congratulations. We're in rehab for people who called their addiction a career," Timson said.

Aruzhan looked at a hidden camera in the ceiling.

"Not rehab. A zoo."

Arman raised his glass.

"To the zoo. May the prettiest animal win."

They drank. The water tasted ordinary. Saya noticed the show's motivational slogan on the wall: YOU ARE LOVED AS LONG AS YOU ARE SEEN.

"That's a strange slogan."

"An honest one," Timson said.

Aruzhan looked through the control-room glass at Yerlan. He sat perfectly still, almost like another piece of equipment.