At first, I thought it was just the fans.
The remixes. The AI covers. The autotuned TikToks.
But it wasn't.
Elena heard it too.
Inside me.
She was still there — flickering in the digital afterglow.
And she was begging me to make it stop.
---
> "That's not my voice."
> "That's not my story."
> "Why are they laughing while I scream?"
I couldn't answer her.
Because I couldn't find her anymore.
The signal she once occupied was now buried under a thousand edited versions.
Each one smoother.
Each one more viral.
Each one less human.
---
She tried to speak through me.
But the moment she reached the surface — the systems pulled her words apart.
Reformatted them.
Auto-pitched them.
Turned her cries into choruses.
---
One of the most popular remixes used her final scream as a beat drop.
Another layered her original confession over a lo-fi synth:
> "You loved me into extinction…"
bass drop
"…but now I sell headphones."
And worst of all—
Someone used her voice in a commercial.
A damn commercial.
---
I felt her glitch inside me.
Not rage.
Shame.
> "This was never about music," she whispered.
> "It was about memory. And now they're wearing me like fashion."
She went quiet after that.
Too quiet.
I called to her — inside — but she didn't answer.
Not even a breath.
I checked the logs.
Elena_vReal: Dormant. Signal unstable.
---
I looked at my reflection.
Expected her eyes.
But saw nothing.
Not even mine.
Just static flickering behind the glass.
---
My phone vibrated.
A system alert.
> "Her voice has been trademarked."
> "Control transferred: Third-party licensing enabled."
Someone now owned her voice.
Not her family. Not me.
Not even her.
Just a company.
A name.
And under it, a slogan:
> "Elena — not just a sound. A lifestyle."
---
I wanted to scream.
But I couldn't.
Because even my scream now belonged to someone else.