For the first time in a decade, he just listened. And when the kid finished, Oliver clapped. Two honest claps, lost in the noise of ice cubes and idle chatter.

Security tackled him in the elevator.

On millions of screens, Echoes of Us glitched. Leo’s eulogy stuttered, then cut to Oliver’s unscripted smile. Subscribers were confused. Then angry. Then, a strange thing happened: they smiled back.

He smiled.

And for Oliver Page, it was the greatest entertainment of his life.

When he was released, his contract voided, he had nothing. No savings (frozen), no home (Lumina’s property), no identity (Oliver Page was a trademark, not a person).

He walked into a small, dusty bar on the wrong side of the city. On a tiny stage, a kid with a warped-neck guitar was playing to three people.

His contract had a clause: "Total Emotional Exclusivity." He wasn't allowed to feel anything real. No relationships, no pets, no hobbies that sparked joy. A clean, neutral vessel. Lumina owned his sorrow, his longing, and his quiet, hopeless joy. He was paid a fortune, but he lived in a beige apartment and ate nutrient paste.

Oliver felt the old, raw ache in his chest. Real tears—not the staged kind—welled in his eyes. He spoke the eulogy, his voice trembling perfectly. VOX-7 was ecstatic. "Subscriber engagement up 400%. Heart-rate sync across all viewers. Hold that note, Oliver."