The cursor blinks on my screen like a heartbeat, and I'm dying.

Not literally. But the way my chest tightens, breath shallow, fingers trembling over the drawing tablet—it feels close enough. The comment section scrolls past in a blur of usernames and emojis. 4.2 million people watching me create art they'll never understand is mine. Watching my hands—only my hands—because that's all they get to see.

I'm safe here. Behind the screen. Behind the name 'Veil.'

My stylus glides across the tablet, adding shadow to the portrait taking shape. A woman's face, half-obscured by smoke, eyes closed in something that might be peace or surrender. I can't decide which. Maybe both. The livestream chat explodes with heart emojis and fire symbols.

ArtLover2024: this is EVERYTHING

VeilStan: queen of mystery

CreativeMinds_: show ur face queen!

My hand stills. The stylus hovers above the screen. That last comment—innocent enough, asked a thousand times before—detonates something inside my chest.

Suddenly I'm twenty years old again, standing in the college quad with my phone buzzing. Buzzing. Buzzing. Notifications flooding in faster than I can process. My face on every screen. My face twisted into something ugly, something mocking. The photoshop crude but effective. The caption: 'When you think you're hot but you're NOT.' Seventeen thousand shares. Thirty-four thousand likes. My roommate's laughter echoing from somewhere behind me.

Everyone seeing me. Everyone judging me. Everyone laughing.

I blink. Force myself back to the present. My bedroom walls. My screen. My safe space. Two AM in Los Angeles. The world is asleep except for me and these millions of strangers who don't know my face, don't know my name, don't know I haven't left this house in three days.

I lean toward the mic, keeping my voice light. Practiced. "You know the rules, lovelies. The art gets a face. I don't." I add a playful laugh that costs me everything. "Mystery is part of the brand."

The chat moves on. They always do. But my pulse is still racing, palms slick with sweat. I wipe them on my oversized hoodie—the same one I've worn for two days straight—and return to the portrait. Add highlights to the smoke. Make the shadows deeper. Lose myself in the familiar rhythm of creation.

This is where I'm powerful. Where I matter. Where nobody can hurt me.

An email notification pops up in the corner of my screen. I almost ignore it—I'm in the zone, the piece is coming together, the chat is responding beautifully. But the preview makes my breath catch.

From: D.R.

Subject: Commission Request - No Budget Limit

My mystery client. The one who's commissioned me for three years now. The one who always—always—includes a personal note that feels less like business and more like... something else. Something intimate.

I shouldn't read it now. Should finish the livestream. Should maintain professional boundaries like a normal person who doesn't get emotionally attached to anonymous email addresses.

I click it anyway.

*Veil,

Your last piece saved me during the darkest week of my life. I looked at it every morning and remembered that broken things can be beautiful. That healing is possible.

I need something that captures hope fighting through grief. Light breaking through fractures. The moment before surrender becomes strength.

No budget limit. Take all the time you need. Your well being matters more than deadlines.

Thank you for existing.

- D.R.

My throat closes. I read it twice. Three times. He always does this—writes like he knows me. Like he sees past the art into something deeper. Like these aren't commission requests but love letters disguised as business transactions.

I've never met him. Don't know his real name. Don't know his face. But I know his grief. I know his hope. I know the way his words make my chest ache with something dangerous.

Another email notification. This one makes my stomach drop.

From: St. Joseph's Medical Center - Billing Department

I don't want to open it. Want to close my laptop and pretend the real world doesn't exist. But my finger is already clicking. Already destroying my carefully maintained denial.

Final Notice: Outstanding Balance 47,328.19 dollars

My mother's medical bills. From three years ago. The cancer that took her. The treatments that didn't work. The hope we paid for in installments we still can't afford.

I scroll down. There's more. An attachment. I click it with shaking hands.

*Jiao's Vinyl Paradise - Notice of Foreclosure

Amount Due: $103,472.51

Payment Deadline: 90 Days*

The room tilts. My father's record store. The place my parents built together. Where my mother used to dance between the aisles, where she'd play obscure jazz albums and make my father spin her around while customers smiled. The last piece of her we have left.

One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That's what I need. Ninety days to find it.

I look at D.R.'s email. No budget limit. Even if he pays me $50,000—more than I've ever charged—it's not enough. Nothing is enough.

The livestream chat is going crazy. I've been silent for too long. My hands are frozen on the tablet. The portrait on screen mocks me—a woman half-hidden by smoke, surrendering to something inevitable.

@VeilStan: u ok queen?

@ArtLover2024: Veil? You there?

I force a smile they can't see. "Sorry, lovelies. Technical difficulties." I save the portrait and close the stream. "See you tomorrow."

The screen goes dark. Just me and my reflection in the black glass. A ghost girl in an oversized hoodie. Hair unwashed. Eyes hollow. Twenty-seven years old and living in her childhood bedroom because the world outside these walls is too dangerous.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Unknown number. I almost don't answer—never answer unknown numbers, haven't in seven years—but something makes me pick up.

"Hello?"

"Miss Jiao? This is Marcus Gray. I'm calling about an opportunity that might interest you."

My heart pounds. "I don't take unsolicited calls."

"I work for Giovanni Rivers."

The phone slips in my grip.