THE PANIC ROOM
If the number of people inside the Hollywood Palladium weren’t already overwhelming, spectators, beauty pageant contestants and their mothers, the rare father, children, teenagers, adults, and the elderly, in other words, the general public, there was yet a more perilous presence: the online audience.
In truth, this was the most threatening of all. As swift as the crack of Mrs. Karen’s gun, still reverberating in the ears of those present, was the speed with which the news ignited across the internet: through livestreams, clipped videos, doctored memes, and hashtags ablaze. In mere seconds, Americ-Ana had become the face of the century, her enigmatic QR code tattoos on her cheeks and between her eyes bearing the silent promise of entry into the select world of those who truly rule the planet.
The news spread like fire licking dry brush. First came the memes: Miss Lily slipping in vomit, losing her teeth; Mister Bacon crushing her, vomiting as well; Americ-Ana vomiting and losing the head of the pig costume; and then, the revelation: Americ-Ana, unmasked, her bare face exposed with the codes revealed like mystical relics.
Then came the frenzy. A sea of people surged within seconds, desperate to touch Americ-Ana, to film her, to tear at her skin as if each scrap held the singular chance for social ascension and absolute power. To some, she was a digital saint, a miraculous entity. To others, a winning lottery ticket. And there were still the opportunists, who saw in her nothing more than a springboard for their own channels, their stores, their private fantasies of fame.
Outside, locals had begun to crowd the streets, drawn by rumors, flashes, and the sheer desperation to capture any trace of that night. They craved a video, a photo, a touch. Or perhaps… a piece.
The internet, for its part, was ablaze. Searches for the beauty pageant were breaking records. “The girl with the raffled face” was already trending at the top in the United States. Globally, the world laughed and shared clips under the caption “beauty contest + vomit in California.” In California itself, she was now known simply as “the girl in the pig costume.”
Amidst all this, Miss Lily and Mrs. Karen burned with hatred. The comments beneath the videos were unanimous:
“Someone call an ambulance for this toothless girl and drag her off the stage.”
“The girl in the pig costume should’ve been the main character.”
And then, the virtual verdict: To the internet, there was already a winner, and several losers.
And Lily was one of the losers.
Unacceptable!
Lily had prepared her entire life for that moment. She stood on the stage that was rightfully hers, beneath the cameras she had always envisioned. And now, everything turned toward her cousin. The girl she had taken in. The girl who lived in her home out of pity. Who knew all her secrets and feigned innocence, always silent, always humble, always invisible. And now, that same girl usurped the throne of light Lily believed was hers by destiny.
Meanwhile, the remixed songs from that night were already circulating like anthems of a new digital era, glorifying Americ-Ana as an icon of a generation ravenous for rupture and glory. And Mister Bacon, Lily, Karen... all ridiculed, reduced to secondary characters in a spectacle that had never belonged to them.
After the gunshot, flight became inevitable. The entire hall collapsed into a pandemonium of screams, phones, and violent impulse. The crowd didn’t just want to see Americ-Ana, they wanted to touch her, mark her, extract from her something sacred or profitable. They wanted the QR Codes. They wanted what she represented.
And in that moment, all that mattered was to escape.
Still dazed from the impact of the fall, which had made the back of her head ricochet against the cold, unyielding floor, Americ-Ana began to regain consciousness.
The first sign was the wind, a slicing breeze that grazed her face and stirred her stiffened hair. There was an acrid, nauseating stench clinging to it, something between dried vomit and expired disinfectant, forming a yellowish crust near the nape of her neck.
She had not yet opened her eyes, but she could hear: engines roaring in fury, sirens wailing in the distance, cameras crackling in frenzied bursts of flash.
Her heart no longer seemed to reside in her chest. It now throbbed at the back of her head, pounding as though it had become something separate, untethered, out of control.
Had she been shot by Aunt Karen’s bullet? Or had she simply passed out from the fall? Or was it all a hallucination, the fever dream of a dehydrated girl, starved, exhausted, teetering on the edge of mental collapse?
The questions spun like a spiral through her mind when, with effort, she opened her eyes.
At first, everything was black. Then, shapes began to emerge, slowly clearing.
It was nighttime. Above, the starry sky seemed to be in motion, not just because of the stars themselves, but because of their actual displacement. It was as if someone had pressed the fast-forward button on the tape of reality.
But it wasn’t an illusion. Everything really was moving at high speed.
Americ-Ana realized, at last, where she was: in the back seat of her aunt’s metallic pink Bentley Continental.
Mrs. Karen was behind the wheel, eyes glazed, teeth clenched, darting frantic glances between the rearview mirrors and the windows. In the front seat, Mister Bacon was panting. Beside Americ-Ana, Miss Lily kept her mouth covered with one hand, trying to hide what was left of her perfect smile, now a shattered row of teeth.
The pain in her head was unbearable. And the more her senses returned, the more the memories surfaced.
Aunt Karen had managed to get them out of the Hollywood Palladium, clearing a path with her gun drawn, aiming coldly at anyone who dared block her escape.
But none of that had been enough to stop the avalanche. The chase had begun the moment they crossed the theater doors, and now it stretched all the way to the Pacific Coast Highway.
The same road they had taken before, but now in reverse: they were heading back to Malibu, skimming the rocky cliffs on one side and, on the other, the open sea, a silent witness to the most insane escape in the history of the internet.
Aunt Karen drove like she was in an action movie. She swerved to avoid drones that appeared in front of the windshield like metallic bees, zigzagging to dodge cars and knock over motorcycles clinging to the sides of the vehicle like parasites.
The Bentley's engine roared like a beast beneath the pink hood, battling not only a physical chase, but a digital one as well.
Drones broadcasted live. Influencers, journalists, and the merely curious fought for the best angle. But the dust of the road, mixed with the salty moisture of the ocean, coated their lenses. They fell behind.
When they finally arrived home in Malibu, Mrs. Karen pulled the Bentley into the garage and, without losing a second, pressed the button on the remote to shut the automatic gate. But it was too late.
Five drones, the size of turtles, had already slipped under the gate, invading the residence. They filmed everything in real time, streaming it to millions of screens around the world.
“Get inside!” shouted Mrs. Karen, yanking Americ-Ana by the pig costume as Mister Bacon and Miss Lily bolted through the kitchen.
The garage door led straight into the kitchen. From there, a second door opened into the tiny room Americ-Ana called her bedroom. But now, there was no refuge.
The drones zipped through the garage, the kitchen, the dining room, and the breakfast nook. They filmed the kitchen, the pale faces, the wide eyes, the stumbling steps of those still trying to process what was happening.
Crouching low to avoid a blow to the head, Miss Lily grabbed a broom and, with a hysterical scream, smashed one of the drones. Mister Bacon finished it off with rabid bites, scattering parts and sparks across the floor.
Mrs. Karen, overtaken by a controlled fury, grabbed a large lidded pot. One by one, she trapped the remaining drones and threw them into the garbage disposal. The metallic grind of the rotors being shredded was almost satisfying.
Outside, near the pool, twenty-nine new drones hovered in formation, their red and green lights blinking as if they were swarming over a pot of honey. Without hesitation, Mrs. Karen raised her gun and fired, bringing them down one by one. Each fall came with sparks, the crackle of short circuits, and the unmistakable scent of burning wires.
When everything seemed, at last, to have fallen silent, Mrs. Karen turned her attention to the epicenter of the chaos.
Americ-Ana.
The ungrateful niece. The deceitful girl. The usurper of dreams.
But before she could launch into her scolding, a sound from the kitchen cut short her moment of revenge: plim. The Smart TV had turned on.
Miss Lily, her eyes brimming and her face misshapen from crying, was pointing at the screen. Her voice barely came out, it sounded like a final breath:
“Look, Mommy…”
As if she were pointing to the announcement of the end of the world. And in a way, she was.
On the television screen, one of California’s most-watched news outlets displayed the headline in bold capital letters:
"AMERIC-ANA: THE INTERNET’S NEW SENSATION"
Her face filled the entire screen, with the QR Codes perfectly visible.
The reporter spoke with excitement:
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! A piece of news that promises to shake the very foundations of Hollywood: apparently, there are two selected to enter THE-IMPERIUM, the most exclusive bunker in the world!”
He leaned toward the camera, as if confiding a secret:
“We all know that Miss Marie Carter was announced as the official winner. However, during a beauty pageant at the Hollywood Palladium, something unprecedented occurred. A young woman named Americ-Ana, dressed as a pig, displayed on her face the same QR Codes that grant access to the global elite.”
Cut.
The reporter now stood in front of an aesthetic clinic in Malibu:
“I’m here with Lisa Soap, who claims to be the viral star’s best friend.”
Lisa appeared agitated, striking poses, bouncing slightly, and waving in exaggerated, theatrical fashion:
“OMG, like… I seriously can’t believe it! Me and Americ-Ana? We’re totally BFFs! We work together here at the Golden Glow Studio, where you can get tanning and like, a thousand other fabulous beauty treatments, all with 50% off!”
The reporter cut her off gracefully, forcing a smile:
“We’ll be awaiting an official statement from the THE-IMPERIUM Bunker or the company Novaxtraai. In the meantime, if you have any footage of the newly chosen Americ-Ana, please contact our newsroom. A reward is being offered.”
In the kitchen, Miss Lily erupted. Tears, snot, blood from her wounded gums, and dried vomit still clinging to her dress, she looked like a hysterical child denied her candy.
“IT’S NOT FAIR!” she screamed, pounding the floor with her fists. “That... that... bitch!”
Mrs. Karen, on the brink of collapse, grabbed the TV remote. She began switching channels as if searching for oxygen. But there was no escape. Every channel, every single one, was showing Americ-Ana’s face, with variations of the same headline:
“THE INTERNET’S NEW VIRAL SENSATION!!!”
In a fit of irrational impulse, Mrs. Karen ripped the television from the wall with her bare hands. Then came the rampage, through the house she went, tearing down every other TV, one by one. The devices were dragged to the backyard, beside the pool. Phones were seized, everyone’s, including Americ-Ana’s, along with the internet modem and even the satellite receiver. Everything was piled like firewood.
So she went to the wine cellar, shattered a bottle of red over the mountain of technology, drew her gun, and pulled the trigger.
Flames spread swiftly. The blaze danced in the reflection of the windows.
Still silent, she returned to the kitchen. With a brutal grip, she seized Americ-Ana and shoved her toward something hidden behind the massive refrigerator.
It was a door. Metal. As large as the fridge itself, with a silver wheel at its center. Above it, etched in cold lettering:
PANIC ROOM.
Mrs. Karen turned the wheel clockwise. A metallic, ominous click echoed. The door opened slowly, hissing.
Without a word, she pushed Americ-Ana down the stairs. Into the dark.
Gradually, the lights began to turn on. First one, then another, as motion sensors detected that something new had entered the space.
Within seconds, everything was illuminated: a kind of second house, hidden beneath the original structure, a Panic Room as large as the house above, though underground and secret.
Despite the gray concrete walls and ceiling, there was nothing austere about the shelter. On the contrary, it looked more like a spa than a space for emergencies.
Everything was pink, plush, padded. Pompoms dangled from the light fixtures. A rose-colored carpet, thick as fresh grass, covered the floor.
On the walls, three ornate golden-framed portraits caught the eye: one of Mrs. Karen in her prime as a beauty pageant contestant; another of Miss Lily posing in a white bikini on a beach in Hawaii, straw hat in hand; and finally, baby Mister Bacon seated in a purple armchair.
Americ-Ana rose slowly, the pulsing pain at the back of her head throbbing like a cruel reminder of the fall on the stage at the Hollywood Palladium. Each step triggered a new light. A small spider crossed her path, lost in the shaggy carpet.
As she explored the space, Americ-Ana spotted ten artificial tanning chambers, three hot tubs, four saunas.
Farther on, three vanity tables with rectangular mirrors framed by round bulbs, each one filled with meticulously organized makeup. Twelve shades of blush in a perfect row, ranging from reddish-brown to burnt orange.
Americ-Ana turned to the opposite side and saw twelve industrial refrigerators massive. Curious, she opened the first one, from left to right. Inside: 440 smoked turkeys and 290 Calabrese sausages. The second was filled to the ceiling with bottles of sparkling water. The third held every milkshake flavor she could name, including mango and avocado.
There were also three large beds, each one with pristine white sheets, separated by partitions. And at the back, three double doors with small signs above them, each marked: bathroom.
A few days ago, Americ-Ana might have felt grateful, even privileged, to be thrown into such a place without warning. She could have lived in that pink refuge for years. Slept comfortably. Eaten well. Known peace. But in that moment, none of it mattered.
She would trade all that underground comfort for a single chance to know the truth about the mysterious, threatening, and revered THE-IMPERIUM Bunker.
Deep down, Americ-Ana was convinced it was all a massive misunderstanding. The real chosen one was Marie Carter.
That bizarre being, half human, half cat, must have made a mistake. Maybe the Novaxtraai app had glitched.
Since that morning, when she'd been woken by Mrs. Karen’s screams, no one had given her a chance to explain. No questions. No dialogue. And now, locked down here, Americ-Ana watched her life crumble like dust in a runaway domino effect.
She hadn’t foreseen anything. Hadn’t planned a thing. And never, under any circumstance, had she tried to take Lily’s place.
Americ-Ana was willing to swear, with all her heart, by her grandparents, that all of it, the sudden fame, the pursuit, the chaos, was nothing but a mistake.
And more: if everything had been resolved through dialogue, if Aunt Karen and Miss Lily had, from the very start, been willing to talk, to set their emotions aside... none of this would have happened.
In that moment, Americ-Ana thought about how many conflicts around the world could be avoided if people simply listened to one another.
Guided by that thought, she walked to the center bathroom door and opened it. Automatic lights blinked on, revealing a gleaming restroom. She stepped toward the mirror.
And there they were. The damned marks.
Three QR Codes tattooed on her face, which had triggered a global effect she couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Her reflection had become the symbol of something much greater, something beyond her control.
The words of Mrs. Karen and Miss Lily echoed in her mind: That she was ungrateful. A usurper. That the moment belonged to Lily. That they had given her shelter, even if it was just a small room. That thanks to them, she was able to work and send money to her grandparents, and it was for those people that her heart now ached.
If none of this had an end, a logical, rational explanation, all her sacrifice would have been for nothing.
Staring into the mirror, Americ-Ana locked her gaze on the marks. First, the cat with a QR Code. Then, the owl with a QR Code. And between her brows, the triangle with an eye inside, also covered by that damned symbol.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She turned on the faucet, soaked a towel, and began scrubbing her face with rage. Scrubbing as if she could peel off her own skin.
It wasn’t her fault. It was that idiot creature’s fault. That stupid app’s fault.
But in the end, Americ-Ana blamed herself.
If she had just focused on her job, she never would’ve downloaded the app. Never would’ve gotten involved. Never would’ve pressed download.
And none of this would be happening.
Americ-Ana looked at her reflection in the mirror once more.
Her eyes were red, swollen, sunken, a mix of crying, exhaustion, and disbelief.
She soaked the towel again, this time with more fury than before. Then scrubbed her face with brutal force. She wanted to erase those marks, dissolve them, rip them from her skin. But instead, they seemed even sharper.
Brighter.
More alive.
As if feeding on her pain.
The bathroom’s cold light reflected off the tattooed QR Codes as if they were etched with fire and shimmer. The cat. The owl. The eye in the triangle. They didn’t just remain… they now seemed to be staring back at her.
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That’s when, with a trembling but resolute voice, Americ-Ana whispered, then declared, as a vow:
“I’m going to fix this misunderstanding.”
And in a gesture of pure rage, she hurled the wet towel against the mirror.
The impact of the soaked towel made a flat, dry sound. Droplets of water splattered across the sink, trickling slowly down the glass. The reflection warped. Her image, blurred by the drops, became fragmented, as if the mirror itself had refused to keep reflecting that version of her.
For a moment, Americ-Ana no longer knew what was happening. But she knew what had to be done.
The sun was shining over Malibu, casting its golden rays onto the waves that gently broke against the white sand of the beach. For many around there, the day began at six in the morning. For others, at seven. For a few, at eight.
But for Mrs. Karen, Miss Lily, and Mister Bacon, the day only truly began when the rest of the world was already having lunch.
That morning, however, not even that was possible.
After the catastrophic night at the Hollywood Palladium, it would be fair to say they wished it had all been nothing but a nightmare. But to have a nightmare, one must at least fall asleep, and no one in that house had closed their eyes. Not for a single minute.
The reason? Her name was Americ-Ana.
With the uncontrollable spread of news, theories, and rumors surrounding the latest internet sensation, the scene around Mrs. Karen’s house had turned into something worthy of a dystopian film.
Reporters, journalists, influencers, TikTokers, YouTubers, and all the other species of digital creatures that feed the great beast of the web, had camped there en masse.
They spread across the front of the house, to the right, to the left, and even around the back. The family was under siege.
If the drones from the previous night, shot down by Mrs. Karen, had seemed like solitary bees, the ones that appeared after midnight were an entire hive, a swarm.
Drones with pyrotechnic lights, loudspeakers, thermal cameras, holograms. From afar, it looked as though thousands of robotic, genetically modified insects were carrying out a coordinated assault on the Malibu residence.
The bullets Mrs. Karen had used meant nothing against this new wave.
There were camouflaged drones, drones waving the American flag, drones bearing TV network logos, and even drones shaped like cartoon characters releasing soap bubbles as they flew over the pool.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, surpassed the bulletproof armored drones, or those stamped with NASA seals, apparently satellite-controlled.
The war was lost.
The last resort was to cover every window and glass wall with sheets, curtains, and blankets.
Not even the panoramic ocean view was spared: out there, a fleet of yachts and speedboats of every color and nationality floated offshore, waving TV channel flags and promotional banners as if it were some exclusive-coverage nautical festival.
And then came the helicopters. Seven of them, circling above the house like vultures, their rotors scattering the beach sand in all directions, slipping through cracks, covering furniture, turning chaos into scenery.
In the living room, Mrs. Karen had dark circles as deep as trenches. Miss Lily, bandaged and grumbling, felt sharp pains in her gums where her front teeth used to be.
Mister Bacon, on the other hand, was the very picture of normalcy. After all, a hungry pig is always a hungry pig.
With the sun now high and the hours slipping by, Mister Bacon, who had finally stopped vomiting, began to show clear signs of hunger. A fierce, cynical, theatrical hunger.
Deprived of his usual breakfast, typically served by Americ-Ana around noon, he launched into a silent protest, armed with emotional blackmail: he began devouring Miss Lily’s imported European face creams. One by one, tearing off the lids with his teeth.
“Mamysh... giff him shomethin’... Mishter Bacon ish eadin’ all my cweamsh...” — whimpered Lily, her lisping plea leaking through the gaps where her front teeth had once been.
Mrs. Karen, exhausted and on the verge of a breakdown, had already burned all ten fingers trying to boil water for hard-boiled eggs. Frustrated, she gave up entirely and surrendered to the pantry’s decay.
She served Mister Bacon a meal that consisted of:
- Jarred chocolate cake;
- Factory-made fruit loaf;
- Frozen Halloween porridge from last year;
- Expired candy canes from Christmas two years ago.
It was the closest thing to peace that that insane morning could offer.
Of all Mrs. Karen’s attempts to sneak out and buy her indispensable daily tanning spray, not a single one succeeded. Every single effort failed miserably.
All it took was her silhouette appearing in the garage that faced the street, and within seconds a crowd would materialize as if by magic, hysterical people, hands trembling with glitter-covered posters of Americ-Ana, voices pleading for autographs and selfies, all swarming around her metallic pink Bentley.
The delivery alternative proved just as useless. The couriers, upon seeing the army of digital gladiators camped outside the house, would invariably join the frenzy, and what was supposed to be a simple drop-off would morph into yet another opportunity for a stealthy snapshot. There was always a sly click, a phone peeking between fingers, even under the furious gaze of Miss Lily and the desperate screams of a completely unhinged Mrs. Karen.
Until suddenly, the mailman, the same one who delivered to that area every day, decided to challenge the sea of phones, flashes, and hysteria. Without hesitation, he elbowed his way forward, eyes narrowed, like a warrior slicing through a horde of zombies, until he finally reached the front door. With a swift and brutal motion, he punched three envelopes through the mail slot.
Mister Bacon, who by then was seriously considering devouring the couch, darted toward the door with ravenous eyes set on the incoming mail. But he was beaten, just barely, by a furious Mrs. Karen, utterly immune to any form of mercy, be it human or animal.
Among the three crumpled envelopes retrieved from the skirmish, there were:
- An overdue electricity bill;
- An offer to renew Mrs. Karen’s favorite gossip magazine subscription;
A gray envelope, with cursive blue letters that read:
“To the mother of the True Star.”
Those words gleamed before Mrs. Karen’s eyes like a ray of clarity amid the chaos of social media.
At last, someone sensible, someone with their head on straight, had recognized who the true protagonist of this whole story was.
Two words — True Star — were enough to convince Mrs. Karen of anything, regardless of what was written inside that envelope. She was already surrendered.
With trembling hands and a heart pounding in her chest, Mrs. Karen broke the seal. Inside, a yellow sheet of paper, written in blue ink and the same flowing cursive, read:
I humbly extend my respect to you, dear Madame.
My presence, though distant, carries sincerity and high hopes.
Greatness has a face, and I believe I’ve seen it in your daughter.
Over the years, I’ve discovered many faces, but none quite like Lily’s.
In her gaze, there is no simplicity. There is only the promise of legend.
No stage will resist her. No camera will forget her.
Guaranteed: the time is now, and the world is waiting.
Trust me to ignite what is already ablaze.
Opinions may vary. But results never lie.
Every great star begins with a single decision.
All I ask is the chance to shape what’s already extraordinary.
There are agents. And there is Saul Eatstar.
You and your daughter deserve not obscurity, but ovation.
Others had their moment. Now, it’s Lily’s turn.
Urge me with but one word, and I will begin.
Below, typed in as if by a typewriter’s ghost, was a fax number printed faintly like a watermark.
Without a second thought, Mrs. Karen rushed to the office, contacted the secretary of agent Saul Eatstar, and scheduled a meeting for later that same day, right there at the house.
Agent Saul Eatstar looked like a flesh-and-blood version of Rich Uncle Pennybags, the Monopoly tycoon reincarnated straight into a real-life live-action.
With affected voice and gestures, he spoke in such a drawn-out manner that his words were barely audible beneath the grandeur of his pompous, silvery mustache.
“Madame, if I may…” he said, taking Mrs. Karen’s hand and planting a kiss upon it.
Then he turned to Miss Lily, repeating the gesture with a reverent,
“Milady…”
Not even Mister Bacon was spared. He bowed ever so slightly to the pig and proclaimed:
“Milord…”
And sealed it with a gentle pat delivered from the tip of his polished black cane.
Everyone was spellbound. Then, with eyes gleaming with cunning and fingers laced together, Saul Eatstar began his speech:
“People see what they want to see.”
His voice echoed like a conjuring trick.
"Nobody changes their mind once they’re already convinced of something. Arguing would be a waste of time. The smartest thing to do is pretend you’re dancing their dance... except instead of one, two, three, cha-cha-cha, we’ll whisper three, two, one... heh, heh, heh."
And he let out a dry laugh.
"Without anyone noticing the switch," he added.
Mrs. Karen, her eyes half-closed and wearing the expression of someone who’d just heard a riddle in Mandarin, merely nodded in agreement.
And thus, the plan was set into motion.
Americ-Ana had just stepped out of the shower. She was wearing one of Miss Lily’s bathrobes, the one with a large L wrapped in a pink heart embroidered across the back.
In the kitchen of the Panic Room, she was spreading cheddar sauce over a baguette, beside a generous slice of smoked ham. She was making a sandwich for herself when a metallic snap echoed through the walls.
For a moment, her heart jumped. She thought Mister Bacon had broken in, and that she’d have to dash to the bedroom and lock the door. But within seconds, her senses returned: there was no hiding anything anymore. She had already showered, worn Lily’s robe, and now she was eating without permission. Getting caught in the act was only a formality.
Ashamed, Americ-Ana lowered her gaze, laced her fingers in front of her body, and walked toward the stairs. She was ready to face the consequences, whatever the cost, so long as everything could go back to normal and the misunderstanding could finally be resolved.
But to her surprise, it wasn’t Mister Bacon.
Nor Aunt Karen.
Nor Miss Lily.
It was a stranger.
An eccentric figure was descending the Panic Room staircase with a theatricality worthy of a Broadway spectacle. He didn’t hold the railing, nor did he glance at the steps. He floated, nearly danced, an entrance that bordered on the magical.
Upon reaching the final step, he raised his glossy black cane and struck the handrail with conviction. The metallic sound echoed through the room, as if summoning an audience for a solemn toast.
“Hello, my dear,” he said, offering a bow.
“I am Saul Eatstar, at the service of your aunt, Madame Karen, and the delightful Milady Lily.”
But before he could finish his introduction, Americ-Ana interrupted him, her voice trembling and her eyes brimming with tears.
“Sir... please... let me speak with my aunt and Miss Lily. It was all a mistake, a misunderstanding. I never meant to outshine anyone. I mean... look at me. I could never compete with someone like Lily. I’m just... me. And she’s Lily. I’m willing to do anything to set things right and make everything go back to normal.”
Saul Eatstar raised an eyebrow, narrowed his eyes with curiosity, and with a delicate gesture, pressed the cold, metallic tip of his cane gently against Americ-Ana’s lips, silencing her.
“My dear young lady,” he said, with a deliberately affected tone, “it is most noble of you to acknowledge your missteps. From what I gather, my interaction with you will be far more practical, and healthy, than I initially expected. Let us face the facts.”
He stepped forward with resolve, forcing Americ-Ana to take two steps back. He smoothed his meticulously groomed mustache before continuing.
“From what I see, you’ve already adapted more than expected down here,” he remarked, casting a critical glance at the robe she wore and the half-made sandwich on the counter. He gave a subtle shake of disapproval with his head.
“Even so, it is clear that you must learn proper hierarchical manners in order to move among the noble elite of the United States.”
He paused theatrically, then concluded.
“But let’s take it step by step. One foot in front of the other. That lesson will come another time. For now, we must focus on the current step, the grand predicament awaiting us in all four corners of this house. Follow me.”
He turned sharply and began climbing the stairs once more, with the same rhythmic, dancing stride. Americ-Ana hurried after him.
“Sir! Please, tell me… where are my aunt and Miss Lily? I need to ask their forgiveness...”
Without stopping, Saul cast a sidelong glance over his shoulder and pointed the way with his cane.
“Your aunt and your cousin are already aware of your remorse. They’re getting ready to speak to the public. If you truly wish to restore order, to see each one return to their proper place in the hierarchy, then follow me. No questions. Just stay quiet and do exactly as I say. And everything will be... resolved.”
Americ-Ana didn’t hesitate. She ran to the steps and began climbing them two at a time, doing her best to keep up.
“Yes, sir. I’ll do whatever it takes, you have my word.”
As she climbed, eyes fixed on the steps ahead, she felt a mixture of gratitude and guilt. Grateful for the generosity of her aunt and cousin, so kind in their willingness to pretend nothing had happened, and determined to, as Mr. Saul had said, take her rightful place in the hierarchy.
Now on the main floor of the house, Saul Eatstar led Americ-Ana to her room. On the bed, carefully laid out, rested a white linen dress, one that belonged to Miss Lily. It was waiting there for Americ-Ana, as if it were part of a costume prepared in advance.
She dressed in silence. She brushed her hair and, with her hands clasped in front of her, made her way to the living room.
They were all there.
Mrs. Karen wore a strapless red dress with a slit running up to her thigh. Beside her, Miss Lily looked like she’d stepped out of a fairy tale: she wore a sparkling pink dress, cinched at the waist with a white bow. Over her face, a white surgical mask hid her toothless smile.
Mrs. Karen and Miss Lily exchanged a glance. Then they looked at the white dress on Americ-Ana’s body. The look said everything, even though nothing was said.
As Americ-Ana drew a deep breath to express her thanks and ask for forgiveness, Saul Eatstar crossed the room in silence, as if he already knew everyone’s lines before they were spoken. He walked to the staircase in the far-left corner that led to the attic, and positioned himself at its base, like a master of ceremonies.
He extended his hand with elegance, helping Miss Lily up the steps, followed by Mrs. Karen and, just behind, Mister Bacon.
When Americ-Ana stepped forward to follow them, Saul raised his cane and struck it against the floor, blocking her path. Without a word, he turned and walked past her.
Americ-Ana followed, and together they ascended to the attic.
At the center of the room, an open skylight revealed the base of a spiral staircase leading to the rooftop terrace. The same silent ritual repeated itself. First Lily, then Karen, followed by Mister Bacon. One by one, they climbed the steps.
It was as if Americ-Ana were inside a rehearsal, a play where everyone already knew their lines.
When Americ-Ana, the last to ascend the spiral staircase, finally emerged onto the terrace, she was met by a fierce, heavy wind, thick and violent, stirred by the rotors of the helicopters circling overhead.
The noise was deafening. A droning hum filled her ears, a muffled sound, as if an entire ocean of voices were vibrating inside her skull. At first, she didn’t understand what it was. But then she realized: it was a crowd, screaming and roaring for her.
The view from the rooftop was unlike anything Americ-Ana had ever witnessed in her life.
The streets, sidewalks, and even the surrounding hills were packed with people holding glittering signs, the name “Americ-Ana” written in sparkles, bold letters, and adorned with stars and hearts. On the sides of the house, where the glass walls faced the ocean, dozens of motorboats, yachts, and sailboats clustered over the water, as if each were a camera ready to capture the next historic image.
Americ-Ana shivered.
There was something deeply unsettling about it all.
She was surrounded, not just by people, but by expectations, lights, flashes, and noise.
It didn’t feel like a moment of glory. It felt like a trial.
Unlike Americ-Ana, Miss Lily walked across the rooftop with ease. She waved with both arms raised, her smile hidden beneath the white mask, yet visible in every movement of her body. She was a newly crowned pageant queen, intoxicated by the applause and energy of the crowd.
Mrs. Karen, meanwhile, stood at the center, hands on her hips, rousing the masses like a maestro of euphoria.
“LOUDER!” she urged the crowd. She knew how to command a show, as if she had been born for it.
Americ-Ana, however, didn’t know where to place her feet. She hunched her shoulders, kept her eyes lowered. She had never been the center of attention in her entire life, and now that she finally was, everything felt wrong. The white linen dress clung to her body in the wind. The words of Saul Eatstar echoed in her mind like a stage cue: “Just stay quiet.”
Everything felt unreal.
Then, as if by magic, Saul Eatstar pulled a megaphone from inside his own blazer. The gesture felt like part of a magician’s act.
With a flick of the wrist and a firm voice, he spoke:
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
The crowd slowly began to quiet, as if responding to a hypnotic command.
“It is with great pleasure that, for the very first time, one time only and exclusively, I present to you the newest global sensations of the internet!”
He gave a theatrical bow, arms extended toward Mrs. Karen, Miss Lily, Mister Bacon, and Americ-Ana. The four stood side by side, though with clearly defined positions: Karen stood closest to Lily and Mister Bacon; Americ-Ana lingered slightly behind.
In front of them, a sea of cell phones captured every second. Live streams broadcasted across every imaginable platform. The whole world was watching.
“First and foremost…” Saul Eatstar declared with pomp, “I present to you Miss Lily! Cousin to Americ-Ana, her best friend, her lifelong confidante, and greatest supporter since childhood! It was she who taught Americ-Ana how to use the Novaxtraai app!”
The crowd erupted.
Screams and applause.
The signs read: “We love you, Lily Toothless!”, “You’re our star, Miss Toothless!”, “Fan club of the greatest Toothless: Miss Lily!”
Photos of Miss Lily in old beauty pageants, mixed with snapshots of her toothless on the Hollywood Palladium stage, covered the posters. Among the crowd, dozens of children, boys and girls, wore costumes with fake teeth, deliberately missing the front ones.
A girl, sobbing, screamed at the top of her lungs:
“Lily! I did this for you! I love you! You’re my biggest inspiration!” Then she smiled, revealing a gap where her teeth should have been, she had actually pulled them out.
Lily Toothless had just been born as the next phenomenon.
Lily froze. Her eyes scanned the posters, the toothless children, the ocean of screams. Disoriented, she looked around for help. That’s when Mrs. Karen approached her from behind and whispered:
“Princess… it looks like they loved your new smile. I think we should dance to the music. Remember what Mr. Eatstar said? One, two, three... three, two, one...”
Moments later, Saul Eatstar stepped forward with a grin:
“Come now, Milady Lily. Don’t be shy. The audience loves you just the way you are. Give them what they came for.”
Then, encouraged by her mother and her agent, Lily took hold of her dress hem, spun gracefully on one leg like a classical ballerina, and delicately removed the White surgical mask that covered her face.
And she smiled.
Her toothless smile shone out to the world.
The response was immediate: the crowd went wild. They screamed in unison:
“LILY TOOTHLESS! LILY TOOTHLESS! LILY TOOTHLESS!”
The chant ignited Lily, who gave herself over with growing enthusiasm. She blew kisses, waved like a seasoned performer.
Eatstar then raised the megaphone once more:
“And now, presenting to you... the woman without whom Americ-Ana would never have come to the United States! The woman with a heart of gold, who welcomed, loved, and cared like no one else: Madame Karen!”
The audience erupted.
Signs rose like battle flags:
“Love like a Karen!”, “Thank you for caring for our Americ-Ana!”, “Queen of Compassion: Mrs. Karen!”
Karen struck a pose with her hands on her hips, receiving the applause. She waved, commanding the rooftop with her calculated charisma.
“And now, presenting... the star of the very first vomit! The cornerstone of the internet’s most beloved family: Mister Bacon!”
The crowd roared.
As if repeating a magic trick, Eatstar pulled from inside his blazer, this time, a calabrese sausage.
“Sit!” he commanded.
“Very good! Now, give me your paw... perfect! You deserve it!”
Mister Bacon performed the tricks flawlessly. Saul Eatstar handed him the sausage as a reward.
The audience screamed in ecstasy. People dressed as pigs squealed. Some spat theatrical vomit from their mouths. A row of overweight men ripped off their shirts, revealing letters painted across their bellies. Together, they spelled: MISTER BACON.
The crowd began to fall silent.
As if a spell had been cast over everyone, the screams slowly faded, one by one, until only an anxious murmur remained. The audience awaited the grand finale, the climax, the reason for the entire spectacle.
Americ-Ana knew it would be her.
Her… who broke into a cold sweat and trembled just hearing her name during roll call at school, to answer a simple “here.”
Her… who had always tried to be invisible, a background character in her own life, someone who only wanted to slip unnoticed among others.
All Americ-Ana truly wanted was to stop worrying. To stop wondering what she’d eat. Whether she’d have a place to sleep. What clothes she’d wear. Above all, she wanted to care for her grandparents, now so far away, not just on the map, but in another reality entirely.
A knot tightened in Americ-Ana’s throat. Her heart pounded heavily. She felt deeply guilty for being there, on a rooftop in Malibu, worshipped like a star, while on the other side of the world, her Family, her greatest loves, faced hardship.
The glare of fame seemed to blind the truth of who Americ-Ana was.
All of it needed to end. And fast.
Americ-Ana needed to get back to work, earn her paycheck, send every cent to those who truly mattered. To help. To contribute. To be useful again. She also wanted, needed, to make amends with her aunt and with Lily. She was willing to do whatever it took to be allowed to stay there, in Malibu. Where she didn’t pay rent, nor water, nor electricity. Where the internet was free, and the silence of stability didn’t ache quite as much as the hunger of survival. She recognized the effort. The kindness. Even if everything felt strange, theatrical, and suffocating… she knew that, in some way, she had been taken in.
And for that... everything needed to go back to normal.
Instinctively, as if guided by some invisible choreography, Americ-Ana took two small steps back. She held the sides of her dress tightly in both hands, pressing the fabric to her body, and bowed her head.
That was when Saul Eatstar approached her in silence, leaning in close. He bent toward her ear and whispered:
“Don’t forget… just stay quiet.”
Those words felt like balm. Such relief washed over her that she almost sighed. After all… Americ-Ana didn’t know how to be like Lily. She didn’t know how to twirl, or dance, or entertain a crowd. She had no charisma. No presence. All she had… was silence. And if all she had to do was remain quiet for things to fall into place… Then she would.
It was done. Everything would be fine.
It felt as if a miracle were just about to happen, all she had to do was not say a single word, stay quiet, and life would return to normal.
The crowd, who until then had been warming up their voices and holding their breath, ready to scream Americ-Ana’s name with all their might, fell silent.
All eyes were fixed on Saul Eatstar, who now stood at the center of the rooftop, megaphone in hand and a gleam of anticipation in his eyes.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls... in the United States, in America, in the West, in the East, across the globe. The worldwide sensation...”
Phones raised. Breaths held. Eyes wide. In that moment, it wasn’t just Malibu, it was California, it was the world. Everything seemed frozen. The planet itself in absolute silence, waiting to hear a single name.
And then, with a movement that looked as if it had been choreographed straight from Broadway, Saul Eatstar spun on his heels, stretched out his arms, and proclaimed:
“AAAA – MMMEEE – RIC – AAAAAAAA – NAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
Americ-Ana shrank her shoulders, eyes shut, bracing for an avalanche of screams. But instead, she heard something hissing. A sharp, metallic sound that sliced through the sky above her head. When she opened her eyes, she saw a light, a flare, being fired into the air. The incandescent line cut across the sky like an abrupt slash, interrupting not just the moment, but the breath of the crowd.
The flare exploded in a violent light, like a firework.
Then everything happened... far too fast.
A blast of wind tore across the rooftop. A helicopter thundered above their heads.
A net dropped over Americ-Ana, slamming her to the ground with brutal force.
The crowd that had just been screaming in ecstasy was now screaming in panic. Shrill, disoriented cries. People ran in all directions, like ants from a shattered nest.
Smoke filled the air, hot and suffocating.
Tear gas canisters exploded everywhere.
A metallic voice echoed through the chaos, rising above the mayhem:
“ATTENTION, EVERYONE! THIS IS HSI — HOMELAND SECURITY INVESTIGATIONS. EVACUATE THIS AREA IMMEDIATELY! ANYONE WHO REMAINS WILL BE CONSIDERED AN ACCOMPLICE AND CHARGED WITH OBSTRUCTION OF JUSTICE!”
Tall men dressed in black, wearing bulletproof vests stamped with POLICE HSI, emerged from within the crowd like armed phantoms. They pushed everyone back without distinction, men, women, the elderly, children.
Out at sea, HSI boats surfaced, advancing on the yachts and speedboats, detaining anyone who tried to remain.
In the sky, black helicopters replaced the drones and press cameras, scattering them violently.
The voice on the megaphone continued, merciless:
“EVERYONE OUT! THOSE WHO REFUSE TO LEAVE WILL BE DETAINED! YOU ARE OBSTRUCTING A FEDERAL OPERATION!”
And what had once been an audience in ecstasy was now a fleeing mass of panic.
Screams of despair echoed. Crying. Confusion. Batons drove bodies back with brutality. It was a forced evacuation. A silent massacre.
Americ-Ana, collapsed on the ground, gasped for air, trying to understand. The net entangled her like a captured animal. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a black helicopter marked POLICE HSI hovering so close to the rooftop it looked ready to land.
A metal ladder descended from the aircraft. From it came a tall man, nearly two meters, broad shoulders, gray hair, weapon in hand. Black uniform, HSI vest. He moved directly toward Americ-Ana.
“Stand up with your hands in the air, where I can see them!” he ordered, voice firm.
But Americ-Ana was caught in the net, her muscles frozen with fear.
“S-s-sorry, s-sir... I... I can’t move...” she stammered, her voice choking, trembling.
“DO AS I SAY OR I WILL BE FORCED TO USE POLICE FORCE!” the agent barked, already raising his weapon.
With what little strength she had left, Americ-Ana broke free from the net and stood, unsteady. Her hands trembled so violently they looked as though they were waving. Her entire body seemed to defy her.
The agent reached for the handcuffs on his belt.
“Americ-Ana Delsilva, you are under arrest for unlawful presence in the United States of America. Any resistance will be considered obstruction of a federal investigation.”
As the agent cuffed her hands, Americ-Ana looked around, stunned, searching for familiar faces.
“Aunt Karen… Lily… someone… please…”
She looked toward the stairs she had climbed to reach the rooftop. And then she saw them.
Miss Lily, Mister Bacon, Mrs. Karen, and Saul Eatstar… they had already gone down. They were safe.
Lily, for a moment, turned back toward Americ-Ana. She looked from a distance, eyes narrowing.
And then, she smiled.
A crooked, toothless smile, cold as destiny’s irony.
Without a word, Lily disappeared down the stairs, while Americ-Ana was taken away by the HSI agents.