I saw the screenshots before I heard the laughter.

Someone had taped them to my locker—printed in color, high resolution, arranged in a neat grid like evidence at a crime scene. My face. My body. A speech bubble in pink Comic Sans: "Hey baby, I missed you last night."

My stomach turned over.

I ripped them down fast, crumpling the pages in my fist. The hallway was already filling up with morning traffic. A group of sophomore boys walked past, phones out, elbowing each other. One of them glanced up at me and grinned.

"Yo, Kara! You should charge more. Five bucks is a steal."

His friends exploded into laughter.

I kept my face blank. Didn't look at them. Didn't respond. I shoved the crumpled printouts into my bag and walked toward the east wing classrooms, heels clicking too loud on the tile.

Behind me, someone whispered, "Ice queen's finally melting."

I found an empty classroom on the third floor—one of those forgotten seminar rooms that only gets used during finals week. I locked the door, pulled out my laptop, and opened the campus network.

The app was everywhere.

Group chats. Reddit threads. A Discord server with over two thousand members. Someone had even made a review video on YouTube: "Top 5 AI Girlfriends You Can Actually Afford." I was number three.

The developer metadata was sloppy. Whoever built this wanted it to spread fast, not stay hidden. I traced the hosting server, pulled the registration records, cross-referenced the payment processor.

Twenty minutes later, I had a name.

Not Asa's. But close enough. A shell company registered under one of his family's subsidiaries. The kind of thing you only find if you know where to look.

My hands were shaking.

I closed the laptop. Stared at the blank whiteboard on the wall. Tried to breathe.

Four years. Four years of late-night conversations and shared coffee and his hand on the small of my back at faculty mixers. Four years of believing I knew him.

I had saved his life once. Dove into a frozen lake when we were kids and pulled him out, my lungs burning, my fingers going numb. I never told him. Never asked for anything.

And he had turned me into this.

I left the classroom and walked toward the faculty lounge. I wasn't sure what I was looking for—confirmation, maybe. Some kind of explanation that would make this make sense.

I heard his voice before I saw him.

The corridor near the lounge had terrible acoustics. Sound carried. I stopped outside a half-open door, and Asa's voice drifted out, low and controlled.

"She actually believed it, Owen. Four years. Every word."

Owen Cartwright's voice, quieter: "Jesus, man. That's—"

"Justice," Asa cut him off. "Her mother destroyed mine. Drove her to suicide. You think I was going to let that go unanswered?"

"But Kara didn't—"

"She's a Simmons. That's enough."

Silence.

Then Owen, uncomfortable: "So what now? You just... end it?"

"It's already over. She served her purpose."

I stood there. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Someone's phone buzzed in a nearby classroom. The world kept moving, indifferent.

I turned and walked away.

---

I went to his apartment that night.

I still had the key. He'd given it to me six months ago, smiling, saying, "Use it whenever you want to surprise me."

I let myself in. The lights were on. He was sitting on the couch with a glass of whiskey, like he'd been expecting me.

"Kara."

I stood in the doorway. "Is it true?"

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he smiled—not the warm smile I'd fallen in love with, but something colder, sharper.

"You're smarter than I thought. I was wondering how long it would take."

"Four years," I said quietly. "Four years, Asa. Was any of it real?"

"No."

The word landed like a slap.

I waited for him to take it back. To laugh. To tell me this was some kind of sick joke.

He didn't.

"Your mother killed mine," he said, voice flat. "She drove her to jump off our roof. You think I was going to let that slide? You think I was going to let a Simmons walk around this campus like nothing happened?"

"My mother didn't—"

"Don't." He stood up, setting the glass down with a sharp clink. "Don't insult me by lying. I know what she did."

I stared at him. This man I'd loved. This stranger.

"We're done," he said. "You served your purpose. Now get out."

I turned and left.

I held myself together all the way to Juliana's apartment. Knocked on her door. Waited.

She opened it, took one look at my face, and pulled me inside.

"What happened?"

I told her everything. The app. The conversation. The confrontation. My voice stayed steady until the end, and then it cracked, and I couldn't stop it.

Juliana's face went white, then red.

"We're going to the dean. The police. I don't care who his family is—"

"No." I grabbed her wrist. "Not yet."

"Kara—"

"I still have my thesis. I still have my degree. If I go to war with him now, I lose everything." I took a shaky breath. "I need to finish. I need to survive this first."

Juliana looked at me for a long time. Then she nodded.

But something had changed in her eyes.

Something hard and final.

I didn't notice it then.

I spent the next two weeks in the library.

Not the main reading room where everyone studied—too exposed, too many eyes. I found a carrel on the fourth floor of the old stacks, tucked between shelves of outdated urban planning journals that nobody touched anymore. The desk faced a narrow window that looked out over the quad. I could see people moving below, small and distant, living lives that didn't include me.

I worked.

Two years of research. Displacement patterns in post-industrial neighborhoods. Census data, interviews, mapping software. It was good work. Dr. Ellis had told me so three times. "Publication quality," she'd said, leaning back in her office chair with that approving smile. "You should be proud."

I wasn't proud. I was just holding on.

The thesis was the only thing left that made sense. Numbers didn't lie. Data didn't perform. I could control the footnotes, the citations, the argument structure. I couldn't control anything else.

I saw Asa twice during those weeks. Once across the dining hall—I turned and left before he noticed me. Once in the corridor outside the economics building. He looked right at me. His face was blank. I kept walking.

Juliana texted every day.

*You eating?*

*Yeah.*

*Liar. I'm bringing food.*

She showed up that night with Thai takeout and wouldn't leave until I'd eaten half the pad thai. She didn't ask how I was doing. She knew better.

"Showcase is in two days," she said instead, picking at her spring roll.

"I know."

"You ready?"

"Yeah."

She studied me. "You look tired."

"I'm fine."

"Kara—"

"I'm fine." I set down my fork. "I just need to get through the presentation. Then I'm done. Then I can leave."

Juliana's jaw tightened, but she didn't push. She just reached across the table and squeezed my hand once, hard.

After she left, I went back to the carrel.

---

The day before the showcase, I was in the library again.

I'd printed the presentation slides, marked up the notes, rehearsed the introduction until I could recite it without looking. My bag sat on the chair beside me—laptop, water bottle, the small pill organizer I kept my allergy medication in. I'd had the prescription since I was twelve. Severe reaction to shellfish. Not life-threatening if I was careful, but bad enough that I never took chances.

I left the carrel around two to use the bathroom.

When I came back, everything looked the same. Laptop closed. Water bottle where I'd left it. Bag zipped.

I sat down and kept working.

I didn't notice.

---

That night, Reina found Asa in the campus coffee shop.

I wasn't there. Juliana told me later, after she'd pieced it together. After everything.

Reina's hands were shaking when she sat down across from him. Her voice was small.

"I didn't want to bother you," she said. "I know you're busy. But I—I don't know what to do."

Asa looked up from his laptop. "What happened?"

She pulled out her phone. Turned it toward him. A text message on the screen, time-stamped from earlier that day.

*Stay away from him. I'm warning you.*

The sender: Kara Simmons.

Asa's expression didn't change. He took the phone, studied the screenshot.

"She's been sending these for a week," Reina whispered. "I didn't want to say anything. I thought maybe she'd stop. But tonight—" Her voice broke. "Tonight she followed me to my car. She didn't say anything. Just stood there, watching. I'm scared, Asa."

Asa handed the phone back. His voice was very calm.

"I'll handle it."

Reina's eyes filled with tears. "I don't want to cause trouble—"

"You're not." He reached across the table, covered her hand with his. "You saved my life. You think I'm going to let anyone hurt you?"

She nodded, wiping her eyes.

Asa watched her leave. Then he sat there for a long time, staring at nothing.

When he finally stood up, his face was set.

---

Showcase day.

I woke up early, showered, dressed in the gray blazer I'd bought specifically for this. Professional. Serious. I looked at myself in the mirror and practiced the opening line one more time.

"Urban displacement is not a byproduct of development. It is a policy choice."

My voice was steady.

I packed my bag. Laptop, notes, water bottle, pill organizer. I took my morning medication with breakfast—just the antihistamine I always took, the small white capsule I'd been taking for years.

I didn't taste anything wrong.

I got to the auditorium an hour early. Set up my laptop, tested the projector, arranged my notes on the podium. Dr. Ellis stopped by to check on me.

"You're going to be wonderful," she said.

I nodded.

The room filled up. Faculty in the front rows. Students scattered throughout. I saw Juliana slip in near the back, giving me a small thumbs-up.

I didn't see Asa.

I didn't see Reina.

Dr. Ellis introduced me. Applause. I stepped up to the podium.

"Urban displacement," I began, "is not a byproduct of development. It is a policy choice."

My throat itched.

I ignored it. Clicked to the next slide.

The itch spread. My tongue felt thick.

I kept talking.

By the third slide, my hands were tingling. By the fourth, I couldn't swallow right.

I looked down at my notes. The words blurred.

Someone in the audience shifted. A cough.

I tried to keep going.

My airway tightened.

I stopped mid-sentence.

Dr. Ellis stood up. "Kara?"

I couldn't answer.

The room tilted.

I heard Juliana shout my name.

Then everything went white.

I woke up in the hospital.

Fluorescent lights. Beeping machines. A nurse adjusting something on the IV pole beside my bed.

"You're awake," she said. Her voice was kind. "How are you feeling?"

My throat was raw. I tried to speak and managed a whisper. "What happened?"

"Severe allergic reaction. Anaphylaxis. You're lucky someone called 911 when they did."

I stared at the ceiling tiles. Counted the water stains.

Juliana arrived twenty minutes later. She sat in the chair beside my bed and didn't say anything for a long time. Just held my hand.

"The showcase," I finally said.

"Don't."

"I need to know."

She looked at me. Her eyes were red. "They cancelled it. Dr. Ellis said you'd get another chance to present, but—" She stopped.

"But what?"

"She looked uncomfortable, Kara. Like someone told her to say the right things but not mean them."

I closed my eyes.

The doctor came in an hour later. Checked my vitals, asked questions, nodded at my answers. He looked tired.

"We ran a full panel," he said. "Your reaction was consistent with shellfish exposure. But you said you didn't eat anything unusual?"

"No. Just my regular medication. I'm always careful."

He frowned. "We'd like to test the medication you were taking. Do you still have the bottle?"

Juliana pulled my bag from under the chair. Found the pill organizer. Handed it over.

The doctor opened it. Studied the remaining capsules.

"These look standard," he said slowly. "But I'll send them to the lab just to be sure."

He left.

Juliana and I sat in silence.

"Someone did this," she said finally. Her voice was flat. "Someone switched your medication."

"You don't know that."

"Kara—"

"You don't know that," I repeated. But my hands were shaking.

They kept me overnight for observation. Discharged me the next morning with a prescription for steroids and instructions to follow up with my allergist.

I went back to my apartment. Locked the door. Sat on the floor with my back against the wall.

My phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number. No words. Just a photo.

Me, collapsed at the podium. Face swollen. Eyes half-closed. Someone had added a caption in pink text: "Ice queen finally breaks."

I deleted it.

Another text arrived thirty seconds later. Different number. Same photo, different caption: "Guess she's not so perfect after all."

I turned off my phone.

---

The harassment didn't stop.

Over the next two weeks, it became part of the landscape. Fake Instagram accounts posting edited photos of me with crude commentary. My locker spray-painted with the word "FRAUD" in red letters. I reported it to campus security. They took a statement and said they'd look into it.

Nothing changed.

I started taking different routes to class. Avoided the dining hall. Studied in my apartment instead of the library.

People I'd known for two years stopped making eye contact.

Sarah Chen, who I'd collaborated with on a research project last semester, passed me in the hallway without acknowledging me. I said her name. She kept walking.

A guy from my statistics seminar—Marcus, always friendly, always quick with a joke—saw me in the campus bookstore and turned around. Left without buying anything.

I told myself it didn't matter.

I told myself I just needed to finish.

But at night, alone in my apartment, I started wondering if maybe they were right. Maybe I had made a mistake somewhere. Maybe my methodology was flawed. Maybe I wasn't as good as I thought I was.

The doubt crept in like cold water.

---

Juliana showed up at my apartment on a Thursday night.

She didn't knock. She had a spare key. She let herself in and found me sitting at my desk, staring at my laptop screen without seeing it.

"When did you last eat?" she asked.

I didn't answer.

She went into the kitchen. Came back with a granola bar and a glass of water. Set them on the desk in front of me.

"Eat."

I picked up the granola bar. Took a bite. It tasted like nothing.

Juliana sat on the edge of my bed. "I've been looking into some things."

I glanced at her.

"Those social media accounts," she continued. "The ones posting about you. I traced two of them. IP addresses link back to campus housing. Specifically, the building where some of Asa's friends live."

My chest tightened.

"And Reina Vargas," Juliana said. Her voice was careful. "I've been asking around. Quietly. Something about her story doesn't add up. The whole 'I saved Asa from drowning' thing. I'm trying to find records. Witnesses. Anything."

"Why?" My voice came out hoarse.

Juliana looked at me like I'd asked why the sky was blue.

"Because someone is destroying you," she said. "And I'm not going to sit here and watch it happen."

I wanted to tell her to stop. To let it go. To not make this worse.

But I didn't.

Because part of me—small, buried, barely alive—still wanted to fight.

Juliana stood up. "I'm not telling you any of this to freak you out. I'm telling you because you need to know you're not crazy. This is real. And we're going to prove it."

She left.

I sat there in the dark.

My phone buzzed again. Another unknown number. Another photo.

I didn't look at it.

I opened my thesis document instead. Stared at the title page.

*Urban Displacement and Policy Choice: A Case Study*

Two years of work.

I wasn't going to let them take it.