Hell had never been quiet.
But now—
It was screaming.
Not with fire or fury, but with data collapsing in on itself. The red interfaces that once moved with perfect precision now stuttered, overlapping, contradicting.
ENGAGEMENT FAILURE.
FEED INSTABILITY.
INFLUENCE LEAKING.
The Board was losing control.
"They're panicking," Lena said.
Asher watched ancient systems unravel. "They don't know how to exist without attention."
The Board's voice returned, no longer amused.
"CORRECTIVE MEASURES INITIATED."
New narratives were pushed. Fresh scandals manufactured. But each one burned out faster than the last.
People scrolled past.
People closed apps.
People logged off.
Every ignored outrage was a wound.
"You made them visible," Asher said softly.
Lena nodded. "And people stopped being afraid of the dark."
Inside Hell, the Board turned on itself.
One voice accused. Another overrode. Systems that once worked in perfect harmony began to devour their own commands.
Power fractured.
"CONTROL IS IMPOSSIBLE," one voice screamed.
"REASSIGN—" another cut in.
Then—silence.
The red light imploded.
Asher staggered as something inside him shifted.
"I feel… lighter," he whispered.
Lena grabbed his arm. "What does that mean?"
"It means they're gone," he said.
"The Board?"
"Consumed by their own feedback loops."
Hell, without managers.
Just noise.
Asher looked at Lena with awe.
"You did this."
She shook her head. "We did."
Above them, the internet breathed—free, chaotic, human.
And below—
The old gods of attention had fallen.