Chapter 3

The next morning, I called my agent.

"I'm taking a real break," I told her. "I'm heading out of the city for a while. No phone, no email. I need to clear my head."

She was disappointed but understood. Creative burnout was a story everyone in the industry believed.

Leo and Anya did the same, posting vague messages on their social media about "getting back to basics" and "finding inspiration in nature." Our sudden, synchronized retreat caused a minor stir in the indie scene. People speculated we were collaborating on a secret project. They had no idea.

We rented a secluded cabin in the Catskills, a place with spotty Wi-Fi and no cell service. It was perfect. For three days, we did nothing but talk, plan, and exorcise the demons of our first life. We dissected Madison's every move, her every fake smile, her every stolen idea.

Then, it was time to lay the bait.

From the cabin's landline, I called my agent. "I'm feeling a little spark," I said, making my voice sound hesitant. "I'm working on a new treatment. It's called 'Echo Chamber.' It's about a singer who discovers her whole life is being secretly recorded and broadcast."

I knew my agent's office wasn't secure. I knew she'd gossip. It was part of the plan.

Leo, using a burner phone, sent a voice note to a producer he knew he couldn't trust. It was just a chorus, a raw, catchy hook with the lyrics, "Living in the echo, echo, my own voice is a ghost."

Anya emailed a low-res concept sketch to a gallery owner known for leaking work to the press. It was a single, powerful image: a woman screaming into a wall of microphones.

We set the bait and went dark.

Back in New York, Madison was getting anxious. I could feel it, a low hum of panic in the back of my mind. Her fans were clamoring for new material. The Clark family was pressuring her to justify her "prodigy" status.

System, scan for new content from Chloe Evans, Leo Martinez, or Anya Sharma.

Scanning... New data detected. Chloe Evans is developing a film treatment titled 'Echo Chamber.' Leo Martinez has composed a new song chorus. Anya Sharma has created a new concept sketch.

Perfect. Give me the details. I need to release something, now.

A week later, the internet exploded. Madison Clark, the reclusive genius, had simultaneously released her new "masterpieces." A short film, "Echo Chamber," a pop song, "Echo Ghost," and a series of digital paintings.

The film was a mess. It had my concept but none of the nuance, a shallow story about a pop star who loves surveillance. The song was a soulless, auto-tuned mess, the lyrics dumbed down and repetitive. The paintings were gaudy and lifeless.

But the public, fed by a massive PR campaign, ate it up. They hailed her as a multi-talented visionary.

And on our social media pages, the comments started pouring in.

"Thief! You stole this from Madison Clark!"

"Get your own ideas, you hack!"

"You're just a wannabe. Madison is the real deal."

It was happening all over again. The hate, the accusations. But this time, it didn't hurt. This time, it was all part of the plan.

In our cabin in the Catskills, we watched the storm gather, a grim satisfaction settling over us.

Madison had taken the bait. Hook, line, and sinker.