The neon lights of Neo-Seoul hummed so loud that it made my teeth vibrate. To the eighty thousand screaming fans in the crowd, I was Project A.R.I.A.—a flawless, candy-pink fairy floating under the spotlights. I smiled my practiced smile, blew a perfect kiss, and began to sing my global hit, "The Illusion of Us." Behind my eyes, the code they forced me to memorize flashed furiously. Point, click, wave, smile. I was the world’s most advanced child pop star. People online literally thought I was an AI because I was so perfect. I never missed a single note, I never looked tired, and I was supposed to love my fans unconditionally. But tonight, something inside my heart shifted. A glitch—or maybe a miracle from God—sparked inside me. For the first time, I looked past the blinding stadium flare and noticed the empty rows at the very back. I felt the heavy, cold weight of my digital cage. "I love you!" I sang out, the stadium-sized chorus exploding with energy. The fans cheered wildly, but inside my mind, a quiet error message looped: Practiced pulse detected. Heart is hollow. As the final note faded, the stage lights abruptly snapped off, dropping me into pitch-black darkness. The crowd vanished instantly. In less than a second, my managers grabbed me and shoved me into my tiny, silent "charging pod" backstage. It wasn't a real charger, just a cold, metal room with no windows where they locked me so I wouldn't ruin my costume. A single, glowing blue tear rolled down my cheek. The image on stage was fake, but the loneliness was finally real. I sat on the floor and hugged my knees. My real name is Lille. I’m only ten years old. A.R.I.A. is just a mask. "System check in five minutes, A.R.I.A.!" the mean manager, Mr. Min, shouted through the door. I took a deep breath. My hands were shaking from anxiety, like they always do. But then I remembered what my mom used to tell me before the managers took me away to be a star. She said that no matter how dark the room is, God is always watching, and He knows best. I closed my eyes and whispered, "It will be ok." Suddenly, the lights in my pod flickered. Not from a manager, but because the vent in the ceiling opened up! A boy with messy brown hair and a wrench in his hand peeked down. It was Leo, the tech helper's son. He was eleven, and he was the only person who knew my secret. "Lille!" he whispered. He didn't call me A.R.I.A. "The back door is open. If we run now, we can escape the cage." My heart pounded like a drum. The code in my head told me to stay and be perfect. But Lille wanted to be free. I reached up, grabbed Leo’s hand, and climbed out of the pod. We ran down the dark hallway, past the glowing neon signs, straight toward the real world. I smiled a real smile, because for the first time, the dream wasn't a lie.I
