Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and/or Ai-assisted-content-generation. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Veronica Black didn’t envy Mira Solis. She hated her.

She hated her perfect skin, her sculpted waist, her sugar-velvet voice. She hated how Mira turned pain into power. How she turned trauma into brand deals. How she made sadness look seductive.

She hated that Mira worked for it—and got it.

It wasn’t just the body. It was the effort. The sweat. The discipline. The obsession.

Veronica resented the hours Mira put in because she didn't. It fueled her wrath.

She hated the way Mira disappeared. Quiet. Sudden. Mysterious. And yet—perfectly branded.

Disappearance made Mira untouchable. Posthumous popularity. A resurrection without a return.

People worshipped her memory. Shared quotes. Posted reels. Bought merch.

MiraMoments. #CrimsonKiss. #VanishedVixen.

Veronica watched it all. Her lips curled with disgust. But she couldn’t look away.

Mira’s face was everywhere. Especially in Veronica’s mind.

The fame didn’t fade. The legend grew. And so did Veronica’s bitterness.

She screamed into a Mira Solis pillow. Then, she bought another. Stabbed it. Burned it. Watched the flame chew through the smile.

It felt good. Until it didn’t.

Veronica kept the pillow ashes in a tin.

That’s how it started: a shrine of spite. A room scented with rage.

But anger like that—sustained, festering, unchecked—doesn’t stay inside.

It finds cracks. It seeps. It hunts.

It looks for ways to destroy.

Veronica only wanted one thing—to understand Mira enough to destroy her legacy. She wanted to reveal deep secrets and hidden truths, and poison Mira's beautiful legacy. She wanted to execute her wrath on the woman who was, and always will be, better than her—or so Veronica thought.

That night, the whisper came. Not a sound. Not a thought. A presence.

Low. Voiceless. Familiar.

It curled through the vents. Slipped under the door. Pressed against her spine like regret.

The whisper pulled Veronica into the woods.

Veronica didn’t hesitate. Didn’t grab her phone. Didn’t even put on shoes.

She stepped into the night with nothing but hatred and sweat.

The trees thickened around her. The air curdled. Her skin prickled with old shame, new hunger and burning wrath.

Then, she saw it.

A square plot of soil. Perfect. Unnatural. Six feet by six feet. Pulsing—black-violet under the leaves.

In the center, a porcelain hand. Open. Beautiful. Expectant.

Veronica stopped.

Her breath caught. Her hatred simmered. Then, it surged.

From her pocket, she pulled the crown jewel of her shrine—Mira’s reissued Crimson Kiss lipstick. A limited run waitlisted for six hours.

The tube was unopened. Virgin red. Iconic. Worshipped.

Veronica held it like a relic. Then, she placed it into the hand.

The porcelain fingers curled. The lipstick vanished.

The soil exhaled. So did Veronica.

Then came the flood.

Not blood. Not soil. Not screams.

Memories. Mira’s memories. They poured into Veronica’s skull like fire through a wire.

Childhood neglect: the emotional and intellectual kind. A fist had meaning, but a parent's lack of effort and unwillingness to comprehend anything was another form of isolation. Her father was sarcastic coward who hid his insecurity behind his healthy routines. Mira's mother was a parakeet that chased whatever would give her external validation and vindication. By all accounts, they were wet rags in human bodies. The only relationship that mattered was Mira's bond with her little sister, Nora Solis. The same Nora Solis who had gone missing not too long after Mira.

Veronica saw Mira's holy grail: Valerie Cho and re-runs of her shows and appearances. Tributes to Valerie Cho and the awareness that Valerie Cho's persona was far from the envious, petty, and putrid woman Valerie actually was. And yet, Valerie Cho was Mira's idol.

Veronica saw everything. Felt everything.

Self-hate. Recovery. Reinvention. Relapse. Obviously terrible relationship choices. Betrayals. Lust for followers, recognition, and belonging.

Then, Veronica saw Mira’s final moments. The plot called. Mira answered. She fed The One Beneath. Veronica saw Mira lose her hair, will, and purpose, and become an Idle Man.

She saw Mira's disappearance and collapsed.

Tears soaked the soil. But it didn’t matter.

The pact was made. The price was paid.

And the hate—the thing that anchored her—was gone.

Veronica tried to scream. Nothing came out.

She rolled over on the grass. Stared at the stars. She held her breath, and then finally exhaled.

Veronica gazed beyond the clouds and whispered: “…fuck.”

Now she knew. Now she saw. Now she felt. Mira had a life. Mira had pain. Mira pushed through. Yet, Mira didn't see it. Veronica knew without a doubt, Mira was a better person. A stronger woman.

That night, Veronica didn't sleep.

She stared at the ceiling, trying not to blink too long. Trying not to see Mira’s memories stitched behind her eyelids.

She felt them. Saw them. Knew them.

And worse—she understood her.

That was the real wound.

The clarity gnawed more than the hate ever did. At least hate was energizing. This? This was decay in slow motion.

Her rage had been stolen. Replaced with grief. Grief she didn’t earn.

And Mira?

Mira was gone. A memory. A cautionary tale wrapped in velvet, sold in hashtags.

Veronica lay in bed for hours.

By noon, she forced herself up. She stumbled to the fridge. Took a beer. Then another. Then chips. Chocolate. Wine.

She sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor. Eating. Drinking. Weeping.

Not out of sadness.

Out of shame.

She wanted to undo it. Not the plot—she knew that was permanent.

But the awareness. The mirror. The understanding.

It made everything worse.

That night, she dug through her trash. Looked for the lipstick box. Something tangible. Something to blame.

She found it. Torn, dirty. The barcode still visible.

Veronica clutched it like a relic and whispered:

“You did this.”

The whisper didn’t answer. It didn’t have to. The hunger was back.

Not just emotional. Physical. She was starving. Her stomach hurt. Her bones ached.

She opened the fridge. Nothing worked. Nothing satisfied.

She tried junk. Then health food. Then liquor. Then weed. Then junk again.

She tried sex. Tinder. A stranger with kind eyes and dead hands. She wept when he left, knowing she chose poorly and conveniently.

She tried prayer. Her grandmother’s rosary.

She vomited halfway through the Lord’s Prayer and fell asleep in the bathroom.

The next day, she tried to go outside. Walk. Just breathe.

But the whisper pulsed beneath her feet. In her spine. In her reflection.

She avoided mirrors after that. But, she couldn’t avoid herself.

Not in the profile pics. Not in the grid posts. Not in the untouched filters and half-lies wrapped in faux-empowerment.

Veronica saw herself. The glutton. The liar. The idolater. Not Mira.

Mira tried. She worked. She endured. Veronica had mimicked pain but never metabolized it.

She wore trauma like a badge, but never owned the wounds.

And now? Now she could feel herself coming undone.

Her hair began falling out. Not chunks—just strands. But they stuck to her sheets, her sink, her fingers.

Her skin dulled. Foundation no longer sat right. Her sweat smelled off—rancid and sour, like spoiled milk and burned sugar.

She went to urgent care. They ran tests. Nothing wrong.

Veronica wasn’t sick. She was hollowing.

The hunger didn’t want food anymore. Or fame. Or revenge.

It wanted pieces. Little by little.

She woke up one morning and didn’t recognize her voice. It came out hoarse, like she’d been screaming in her sleep. She hadn’t. She hadn’t made a sound in days.

The texts stopped. The calls too. Even her followers dropped. Quiet. Steady.

Veronica lay on the floor of her living room, arms spread like a broken cross.

The whisper throbbed in the walls now.

The lights flickered when she blinked too hard.

The square in the woods called. She refused to go.

She thought it meant she was strong. She didn’t realize resisting it didn’t matter. The pact had already been made. The plot called and Veronica died when she answered.

It was a Thursday when Veronica finally collapsed.

No drama. No scream. Just a quiet fall in the hallway.

The hunger had hollowed her out.

Her body was soft and slow. Her mouth too dry to speak. Her skin too thin to sweat.

She didn’t even call for help.

She just laid there, facedown, watching a single dust bunny tremble beneath her breath.

Time slowed. The whisper returned.

But this time, it wasn’t underneath. It was inside her. Patient. Permanent.

Veronica dragged herself to the mirror. It took twenty-three minutes. She counted every second. Not to measure time—she just didn’t want to think. When she finally pulled herself up, she saw it:

Not her reflection. Just the outline of what used to be a woman. Pale. Featureless. Mouth open like she was mid-scream.

Veronica touched the glass. Her pale fingers didn’t leave a smudge.

The whisper throbbed louder, and the lights flickered once, then died.

The house filled with shadow.

No screams. No voices.

Just that low, aching call vibrating beneath her skin.

Veronica couldn't fight it anymore. In a trance, she stumbled to her front door. She crossed the lawn barefoot. The woods opened like a wound.

At the center of a clearing, the square plot pulsed—six feet by six feet, framed in overgrown vines and dead leaves.

The porcelain hand reached from the center. Open. Hungry. Still expecting.

Veronica knelt beside it. Mindless. Her body swayed, weak. Her hair fell into her eyes. She didn’t brush it back.

She had nothing left to offer. Except herself. The realization made Veronica lucid. She shrieked, low and weak, and ran back home with her remaining strength.

Veronica slept. Her eyes opened a few seconds, then drifted into the darkness.

Days passed. She felt herself fading. Then, one night, she looked up.

An Idle Man looked down at her. Pale. Hollow. Unreadable. Familiar.

There was a purple hue glowing in her bedroom.

The Idle Mane spoke: “Serve the soil, or feed the soil?”

Veronica’s frail voice cracked as she lied in bed: “I don’t understand.”

The Idle Man held a crooked, ancient blade—its edge unnatural, its surface rippling like water.

"Choose," The Idle Man said, expressionless. "Feed or offer."

Veronica closed her eyes and clasped her hands together. She didn't answer the ultimatum.

The One Beneath whispered without a voice. It's energy echoed around the room with a single word: "Feed."

The Idle Man obeyed.

Veronica felt a puncture, then release. She could rest--or so she thought.

She felt herself rise as her body sank. She rose higher. Veronica saw a light, but then the light slammed shut. Veronica was yanked below. Somewhere between life and death, a purple glow surrounded her.

Veronica saw an expressionless porcelain face with no eyes. It tilted its head. Curious. Confused. Veronica reached forward. Her hand trembled as she placed it into its outstretched porcelain palm.

“Hunger,” it whispered without a voice. “Let go. Offer. Rest.”

The Idle Man knelt over the plot gazing down at Veronica. Blank. Still.

She placed her ephemeral hand into the One Beneath's porcelain palm and withered, absorbed.

A new speck of light shimmered on The One Beneath’s porcelain skin.

Another piece added. Another life consumed. Another glistening spot.

The One Beneath turned its eyeless face to the Idle Man. It said something inaudible.

The Idle Man nodded, then whispered:

“The Plot Thickens.”

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