Chapter 2: The Audience of Bystanders
Riya stared at her phone, her heart racing. The strange text—[Welcome to the Virtual Trap. System Initializing...]—stayed on the black screen for three long seconds. Then, with a sharp buzz, her phone turned back to normal. Her Instagram feed popped up, and the numbers kept rising.
She let out a shaky breath. "Just a stupid glitch," she muttered, though her hands trembled. As she locked her phone, a notification flashed: a memory from two years ago. It was a photo of her and Aryan, taken the day he had looked at her with such cold disappointment and said, "You're so obsessed with the lens, Riya, that you've forgotten how to actually feel anything. You're just a spectator in your own life."
She quickly swiped it away, the sting of his words still cutting deeper than any internet troll ever could. She needed to prove him wrong. She needed to be more than just a girl obsessed with numbers.
A few days later, Riya was walking through the crowded city center, filming a "Day in my Life" vlog. For her, the city was just a high-definition background.
Suddenly, a loud screeching sound cut through the noise. A delivery boy on a bike skidded on the wet road and crashed heavily into a fruit stall. The young guy was pinned under his heavy bike, groaning in pain.
Riya stopped. Her heart hammered. But her first instinct wasn't to help—it was to check if her camera was recording.
Within seconds, a crowd gathered. Twenty smartphones rose in unison, all pointing at the crying boy like weapons.
"Someone call an ambulance!" a woman screamed, but her fingers never left her screen. She was too busy zooming in on the boy's bleeding knee.
Riya felt a cold shiver. She looked at her own screen. Her "Live" viewer count was exploding. Comments were flying in: "OMG, is he dead?" "Great footage, Riya!" "Stay safe, queen!"
Riya found herself talking to her camera, her voice perfectly rehearsed. "Guys, it's so tragic. I'm honestly so devastated right now; I can barely breathe."
As she spoke, she caught the injured boy's eyes. They were wide with agony, begging for help. For a heartbeat, he reminded her of Aryan—that same intensity, that same demand for authenticity. She saw her own reflection in a shop window and felt a wave of disgust. Was she really just a vulture?
But then, a massive digital donation popped up on her screen.
The guilt vanished instantly. She adjusted her camera focus, stepped closer to the blood, and whispered, "Don't forget to like and share this stream to spread awareness."
She didn't realize the irony; she was the director of the death of kindness. Suddenly, her phone vibrated so hard it almost slipped. The stream cut off. The screen turned black, and a cold, mechanical voice echoed inside her head:
[Task 1 Completed: Empathy Drained to 0%. Rewards Unlocked: Access to 'Aryan's Hidden Profile'.]