Sydney blinked. The fuck kind of question was that?
"I'm Sydney," she answered automatically, her voice echoing in the void, stretching too far, like the space around her wasn't built to hold sound.
Laughter. Soft at first. Then growing. Not cruel, not kind. Just amused. "Are you?"
Her brows furrowed. "Uh, yeah? Who else would I be? Beyoncé?"
The laughter stopped—instantly, like someone had snapped their fingers. Then the voice returned, smooth, patient, inevitable.
"You're not Sydney. You're just the idea of her."
Sydney crossed her arms, annoyed. "Okay, philosophy class, chill the fuck out. I think I know who I am."
A hum. Deep, thoughtful. "Do you?"
And that's when she felt it.
It wasn't pain—not exactly. It was like something peeling away. Not from her body, but from somewhere deeper.
Her soul.
