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(A Psychological Techno-Horror Thriller)

PROLOGUE

At first, there was silence.

Then a short chime sounded in the dark—one like. A second followed, then a third, a fourth. The notifications quickly merged into an anxious electronic downpour, while comments flashed across the black screen one after another: "Cringe." "Is she seriously like that?" "Hahaha!" "Did you see her face with that crown?" "Post more." "Meme of the year." "Her own fault."

Somewhere nearby, a young woman was breathing hard, fighting with everything she had not to cry.

"Please… delete the video. I never gave you permission to film me. Please," Dinara's voice said.

The answer was a chorus of digital, merciless laughter. A short vertical video lit up the screen: Dinara stood in the middle of a shopping mall, confused and frightened, one hand covering her face while someone filmed her from point-blank range.

"Come on, sis. People love it when you're natural!" Arman said.

The clip cut off abruptly. One comment remained in the darkness: "People turn themselves into memes." A final like chimed, and the screen went black.

A dim kitchen. On the table sat a laptop, a child's mug, and a plate streaked with dried porridge. Yerlan sat in front of the screen without blinking. The laptop showed folders labeled DINARA_VOICE, DINARA_VIDEO, MESSAGES, STORIES, and LAST. A sleepy child's voice drifted in from the next room.

"Dad… is Mom back yet?" Amelia called.

Yerlan closed his eyes and kept them shut for a long moment.

"Soon, qyzym. Go to sleep," he said.

He put on his headphones and pressed a key. A neural-network interface appeared on the screen, along with the waveform of a recorded voice.

"Yerlan, you left the hallway light on again," Dinara's voice said.

It sounded alive. Familiar. Almost real. Yerlan flinched.

"Again," he said.

He played the recording once more.

"Yerlan, you left the hallway light on again," Dinara's voice repeated.

Yerlan's lips trembled. He did not cry. He simply pressed Play again. Beside the voice waveform, another tab was open—the humiliating video of Dinara. Millions of views. Thousands of comments. Yerlan stared at the screen. At the bloggers' faces. At the endless comments.

"You wanted a show…" Yerlan whispered.

His face tightened as he began to type.

"I'll give you a show."

CHAPTER 1

People Who Are Watched

It was a bright, sunny day. The city moved at full speed: cars racing along Al-Farabi Avenue, cafés filling up, couriers weaving through traffic, shopping malls opening their doors, and the mountains fading into the haze.

In a studio, Aruzhan was recording a video. Neat shelves, books, and soft lighting framed her from behind.

"When we laugh at someone we don't even know… it stops being just a joke. We push that person closer to the edge, then pretend all we did was watch," Aruzhan said.

She let the silence hang, staring straight into the lens. Calm. Precise.

"And at that point, it doesn't really matter who clicked first. What matters is who refused to stop."

The recording ended, and Aruzhan changed at once. The calm vanished. Now she looked tired and irritated.

"Was that okay? Or did I sound like I was giving another lecture?"

"It was great. What's the title?" the editor asked.

"Why the Internet Kills People—and Why We Laugh. Just keep the thumbnail subtle. No blood. I don't need a strike."

The editor exhaled and pulled off his headphones. Aruzhan walked over to the monitor. Her face was frozen on the timeline, beneath the words: THE INTERNET NEVER FORGIVES.

"What about adding Dinara's case at the end? It fits the topic perfectly."

Aruzhan did not answer right away.

"No."

"Why not? That story got great numbers. People still remember it."

"They remember the meme. They don't remember Dinara."

"That would make the episode even stronger."

Aruzhan snapped her eyes toward him.

"I said no."

The editor raised both hands.

"Okay. It's just strange. You were the first person who covered the story properly back then."

"Properly?"

The editor faltered, unsure how to answer.

"I mean… professionally. Not like the others. You didn't laugh at her."

Aruzhan picked up her bag.

"Sometimes not laughing isn't enough."

She left, and the door clicked shut behind her. The editor remained at his screen. He opened one of Aruzhan's old projects and scrubbed through the timeline. For a second, an archived shot appeared: Dinara in tears, her face blurred so poorly that she was still recognizable. The editor winced and closed the project.

Outside the building, a young fan was waiting for Aruzhan with a notebook.

"Aruzhan? Could I get your autograph? I went into journalism because of you."

Aruzhan smiled automatically.

"Of course."

The young woman held out the notebook.

"You once said something amazing: 'Silence is a position too.' I've never forgotten it."

Aruzhan's pen hovered above the page.

"Did I really say that?"

"Yes. In your episode about online bullying. After I watched it, I unfollowed a couple of really toxic pages."

Aruzhan signed the notebook and handed it back.

"You're so brave," the fan added.

The young woman smiled and walked away. Aruzhan watched her go, her own smile fading. A new message from her manager appeared on her phone: STAR WEEK. URGENT. THEY RAISED THE FEE. YOU'D BE AN IDIOT TO SAY NO.

Arman stood beside a man in an enormous bear costume. Cameras, assistants, and microphones surrounded them.

"Bro, when she comes out, you drop to your knees and yell, 'Mom, I'm home!' Got it?"

The man in the costume nodded.

"She's pregnant, by the way," an assistant said.

Arman looked at him.

"So what? We're not touching her. The reaction will be real."

The elevator doors opened, and a woman stepped out carrying grocery bags. The bear charged at her. She screamed, stumbled, and fell as the bags flew from her hands. Arman laughed into the camera.

"Good morning, Almaty! If life is one big prank, it's better to be the guy holding the camera."

The woman was crying. An assistant tried to help her up. Without letting his smile slip, Arman whispered to the cameraman:

"Get tighter on her face. Tighter, I said."

Timson stood onstage before a laughing crowd.

"Have you noticed how some people go online like they're stepping into a shower? They're thinking, 'I'll come out nice and clean.' No, bro. You're coming out a meme."

The audience laughed. In the front row, Timson spotted a heavyset young woman laughing louder than anyone else.

"That girl is laughing like her husband finally took a hint after three years."

The room exploded. The woman looked down, embarrassed, her face turning red.

"I'm teasing because I love you! Don't worry. You can always call it body positivity."

The laughter grew louder. The woman was no longer laughing. Backstage after the show, Timson's manager held up his phone.

"The clip with the girl is already taking off. Two hundred thousand views in twenty minutes."

"See? I make careers for people. By tomorrow, everyone will know her."

"She messaged us asking for it to be taken down."

Timson picked up a glass of water.

"She should be grateful. That's free publicity."

Saya sat on the floor of a cozy room lit by fairy lights. Stuffed animals surrounded her, and a ring light glowed in front of her as she spoke into her phone.

"I don't want to use a filter today. I just want to talk. Do you ever feel like if you disappear for one day, people will already forget you existed?"

She read the comments scrolling through the livestream.

"'Saya, you look kind of sad.'"

Saya smiled.

"No, I'm fine. Honestly. Just tired."

A pause followed.

"Tap a heart if you're still here. I need to know I'm not alone."

Hearts streamed across the screen. Saya smiled with a child's open gratitude. Then a private message appeared: STAR WEEK. INVITATION ONLY. She opened it. A glossy logo filled the screen, accompanied by music and camera flashes.

"Seven days. Four stars. Cameras twenty-four seven. Your viewers will decide who deserves to win," the host announced.

Saya froze.

"Star Week…"

She looked at the number of viewers in her livestream. There were fewer than usual.

"Maybe it's a sign."

Saya stood by the refrigerator. A childhood magnet and a family photograph were stuck to the door. She called her mother on video.

"You've lost weight. Are you eating at all?" her mother asked.

"Mom, I'm working."

"Work is when somebody pays you a salary. You have strangers sending little hearts."

Saya smiled, but the words hurt.

"Those little hearts pay for my apartment."

"I'm not talking about money. I'm talking about you. When was the last time you went for a walk without your phone?"

Saya did not answer.

"Saya?"

"I've been offered a project. A big one. Seven days without my phone."

Her mother's face brightened.

"There you go! Do it. You can finally rest."

Saya laughed.

"It isn't a vacation. It's a reality show. The cameras will be on all the time."

Her mother's expression changed.

"Then why would you do it?"

"So people can see the real me."

"I already see the real you."

Saya turned away before she could start crying.

"Mom, this matters."

"Just promise me that if it gets too much, you'll leave."

Saya looked at the invitation on her laptop. Across the screen, in large letters, it said: PARTICIPANTS CANNOT LEAVE BEFORE THE FINALE.

"I promise."

She turned away from the screen.

Timson sat in front of a mirror, wiping away his stage makeup with a tissue. The tired face in the reflection looked nothing like the man audiences saw onstage. A young comedian named Nur stood uncertainly in the doorway.

"Can I come in?" Nur asked.

"If you're here for advice, don't borrow money and don't read the comments."

Nur did not smile.

"You used my joke again tonight."

Timson went still for a second, then continued wiping his face.

"Bro, we live in the same country. Same traffic jams, same relatives. Of course some jokes are going to sound alike."

"Not that one. I sent it to you. You said it was weak."

"Then I improved it."

Nur's face reddened.

"Do you understand what people have been sending me since you talked about me onstage?"

Timson glanced at him.

"They say I'm stealing from you. But those jokes are mine."

Timson looked away.

"Listen, the internet says things about everybody. Don't take it personally."

"Easy for you to say. They love you."

Timson studied himself in the mirror.

"They love me as long as I'm funny."

Nur left. Timson remained alone. The invitation to Star Week was waiting on his phone. He read the terms and snorted.

"Seven days without comments. Practically a vacation."

Arman watched a rough cut of the prank he had filmed with the woman in the parking garage. Onscreen, she was crying while an assistant tried to calm her down.

"Maybe we shouldn't use this part. She looks genuinely bad," the assistant said offscreen.

Arman paused on the woman's face.

"Bad is boring. This is real."

Beside him, his manager, Alik, calculated the projected reach.

"If we leave in the fall, it'll hit a million in an hour. If we cut it, three hundred thousand."

"Leave it in."

"She might file a complaint."

"Everyone complains. Then they repost it anyway."