They notice.
Not because he says anything.
Because the numbers dip.
It's small at first.
Engagement slightly lower.
Post interactions down three percent.
Livestream retention shorter by a few seconds.
Nothing catastrophic.
Just measurable.
And measurable is enough.
He's called into a meeting mid-morning.
Same glass room.
Same long table.
Different tone.
The marketing director scrolls through analytics projected on the wall.
"We've observed a minor shift in audience response," she says smoothly.
Shift.
He leans back in his chair.
"Shift how?"
"Energy perception. Online sentiment is still positive, but enthusiasm indicators are trending neutral."
Neutral.
He almost laughs.
Neutral is dangerous in this world.
A producer clears his throat.
"Your last performance was technically excellent."
Technically.
"But the stage presence felt… restrained."
Restrained.
He nods slowly.
"I was tired."
The room stills slightly.
"Tired isn't a sustainable narrative," someone says gently.
Narrative.
He glances at the screen again.
Graphs.
Lines.
Upward arrows.
Slight downward ticks.
His face beside them.
Projected growth.
Projected stability.
Projected momentum.
He isn't a person in this room.
He's trajectory.
"We've invested heavily in this rollout," the director continues. "Your emotional accessibility is part of the brand positioning."
Emotional accessibility.
He repeats it silently.
"You want me to be more… what?"
"Alive," she says.
Alive.
The word lands wrong.
He thinks about the showcase.
The lights.
The applause.
The way it echoed and disappeared.
He thinks about sitting alone afterward in the dressing room.
About avoiding the mirror.
About not responding to party invites.
He doesn't say any of that.
Instead he nods again.
"I can adjust."
Adjust.
That's what they need to hear.
The meeting ends with strategy suggestions.
More candid content.
Behind-the-scenes clips.
Engagement prompts.
Audience Q&A sessions.
"Fans want connection," someone says.
Connection.
He swallows.
They want it packaged.
Scheduled.
Filtered.
Back in the elevator, alone, he finally exhales.
The mirrored walls reflect him from every angle.
Tailored coat.
Controlled expression.
Brand-consistent silhouette.
Alive.
He forces a small smile.
Tests it.
It looks correct.
Polished.
Market-ready.
He drops it immediately.
In the penthouse, he sits at the kitchen island again.
Laptop open.
Analytics dashboard glowing in blue light.
He clicks through comments.
"Love the new sound!"
"Miss the old grit."
"You seem different."
Different.
He closes the browser.
Leans back.
They don't care if he's struggling.
They care if the brand fluctuates.
They don't care if he's tired.
They care if the performance dips.
It isn't cruelty.
It's structure.
He signed into it.
He knows that.
Still—
The realization lands heavier than he expects.
He is not a person here.
He is a product in development.
Refined.
Optimized.
Corrected.
He built himself alone.
Now he's managed collectively.
Owned by projections.
He rests his forearms on the counter.
Head lowered slightly.
The city hums outside.
Unbothered.
He whispers his real name under his breath.
Softly.
Just to hear it.
It sounds unfamiliar in the empty room.
And that hits harder than the numbers.