### **Chapter 3: Echoes of Control**
She wakes to the faint glow of her laptop screen—the cursor blinking, waiting, accusing.
Sleep had come in fragmented pieces, shattered by whispers she couldn't quite place. Shadows moved in her periphery, the outlines of memories rearranging themselves as if someone had edited her past without her permission.
She reaches for her phone, scrolling through messages that feel familiar but distant, like remnants of a life someone else had lived in her name.
*"See you soon?"*—a text from a number she doesn't recognize.
Her stomach tightens.
The sender's name had been deleted, but deep in her gut, she knows—it won't matter if she remembers them or not. **They will remember her.**
She pushes away the creeping unease, dressing for the day with methodical detachment. Routine is the only thing anchoring her, keeping the edges of her thoughts from unraveling.
At the café, the same eerie consistency repeats itself—her drink already waiting, her presence anticipated.
She's **done pretending** this is normal.
*"How did you know what I wanted?"* she asks.
The barista pauses, confused.
*"You always get this."*
Her fingers curl into her palm. *I don't.*
The moment hangs heavy between them. She searches his face, looking for traces of awareness, of deception—but finds nothing but certainty.
Her world tilts slightly off its axis.
She grips the edges of the coffee cup, grounding herself in its warmth, in the tangible proof that she still exists **outside** of whatever force is scripting her life.
Then, a voice behind her. Low. Familiar.
*"You don't look well."*
She turns.
A man she has never met. A man who speaks as if he knows her.
Her heartbeat stutters.
For the first time, she wonders—not just *who* is watching—but **how long** they have been doing it.
And why.
She doesn't run.
She just listens.
And suddenly, she knows—this is **not** just coincidence.
This is orchestration.
And she is the instrument.