1 I deleted my account. The one with a million followers. My followers were baffled, speculating that I’d been hacked. But Mary, my direct competitor in the beauty niche, cornered me. “Why did you just give up?” she demanded. “Are you insane?” I ignored the noise. I packed a bag and set off to see the world, alone. In my last life, my content and Mary’s were identical. The internet called me a clone, a cheap copycat destined to fade away. The hate flooded my DMs, and then it spilled into the real world. I tried to fight back. I posted screenshots of my creative briefs, my behind-the-scenes footage, time-stamped to prove I was the original creator. They called it all fake. The relentless cyberbullying pushed me into a deep depression, and one sunny afternoon, I slit my wrists and bled out on the floor of my cramped apartment. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back to the very first day Mary stole my video. My finger was hovering over the “Publish” button. One more centimeter, one more second, and I would make the mistake that would cost me my life. A violent shiver wracked my body, and I snatched my hand back as if from a fire. My chest heaved, and I gasped for air, like a drowning woman breaking the surface. The familiar room, the half-finished video on my screen… I was back. Reborn on the day I was supposed to launch my new style. After the initial shock subsided, I saved the video to my drafts and immediately searched for Mary’s social media. Her latest video popped up. It was a complete departure from her usual style. Her previous content was bland, the editing clumsy, barely scraping a few hundred likes. This new video, posted only thirty minutes ago, had already racked up tens of thousands. The comments were on fire. “Holy crap, that look would be a final boss in a survival horror story.” “A 10k account doing the work of a million-follower influencer. GO OFF, QUEEN.” “Is that even a human face? That’s illegal levels of gorgeous.” “WIFEY. OMG, someone stole my literal soulmate.” … The moody lighting, the bold makeup, the camera angles, the background music, even the caption—every single element was a perfect, horrifying mirror of the video sitting in my drafts. If I didn’t know for a fact that the idea came from a British drama I’d been binge-watching, that the script was the result of my own sleepless nights, I would have thought I was the copycat. But the reality was, Mary had beaten me to it. And she had gone viral overnight. Last time, this exact video was the start of my long, slow execution by a thousand digital cuts. I had published it, my heart swelling with pride, expecting praise and recognition. Instead, the comment section was a warzone. Accusations of plagiarism, with everyone tagging the “original” creator. I clicked the link they provided. And there it was. Mary’s video, posted just before mine. The similarity was 99.9%. But I knew I hadn't copied anyone. Fury burned through me. To prove my innocence, I released my scripts and behind-the-scenes footage. It was useless. Mary produced her own “creative process” documentation, timestamped even earlier than mine. The internet mob turned on me with a vengeance. “Pretty sure she had this ‘proof’ ready from the start, just to slander Mary.” “SUPPORT CREATORS! BOYCOTT COPYCATS!” “Ava needs to get out of the beauty community. This isn't the career for you, honey. Stop trying to force it.” “LMAO, talk about getting owned.” Then her management team and agency issued official statements, declaring their unwavering commitment to originality and outlining their collaborative creative process. I was just a solo creator. Everything, from concept to final cut, was done by me, and me alone. I had no one to vouch for me. And then, my own boyfriend, Joey, delivered the final, crushing blow. He posted a video publicly breaking up with me, claiming my past work was just a "Frankenstein's monster" of ideas stitched together from other influencers. He called me a serial plagiarist. His betrayal was Thor’s hammer, shattering what little was left of my credibility. I was plunged into a deeper abyss. My comment sections became a cesspool of righteous indignation; my DMs were a gallery of horrors. The constant pressure choked my creativity. No brands would work with me. My savings dwindled. After a series of escalating self-harm incidents, I finally saw a psychiatrist and was diagnosed with severe depression. And on a bright, beautiful afternoon, I chose to end my own life. But I opened my eyes again. Back where it all began. Nothing has happened yet. This time, I have to figure out what the hell is going on. 2 Clinging to a sliver of hope, I switched to a burner account and dug through Mary’s other social media profiles. Unfortunately, she wasn't the type to share her daily work life. Just as I was about to give up, I saw it. A familiar figure in the background of a group photo. I zoomed in on the live photo, my heart pounding. The image shifted, revealing the person's left hand. On his finger was a ring I knew better than my own reflection. It was Joey’s hand. That ring was my first-anniversary gift to him. I’d had it custom-designed. There wasn't another one like it in the world. So, at some point, Joey had been cheating on me with Mary. No wonder he had abandoned me so ruthlessly, throwing his support behind her the moment the scandal broke. There was no time to mourn the scumbag. My mind was already racing. I often vented to Joey about my work, sharing my half-formed ideas and flashes of inspiration. Could he have leaked my concepts to Mary? It was more than possible. But he was supposedly on a "business trip" and hadn't been home in a while. And even if he were here, he'd never let me touch his phone. I had no hard evidence. But it was a start. I sent Joey the photo, told him we were done, and then blocked his number without a second thought. I immediately changed the passcodes on all the locks to my apartment, making sure he couldn't get in while I was gone. With that loose end tied up, I turned my attention back to my work. I had to create something new. This time, there would be no mistakes. To be safe, I decided to pivot my style again. The stolen video was my first attempt at breaking out of my comfort zone, ditching the sweet, innocent, skinny-girl aesthetic for something more bold and confident. Since that concept had resonated so strongly, I was sure my next one would be even bigger. After hours of brainstorming, I finally finished the script. I looked at the concept on my screen and smiled, a real, satisfied smile. There was no way she could steal this one. To prevent any leaks, I shot the entire video inside my apartment, avoiding any public locations. As I watched the final cut, I felt a surge of pride. I was a natural-born content creator. To be extra cautious, I went to Mary’s latest video and left a comment from my burner account: “Can’t wait for your next video, queen! Please post soon!” She replied a short time later: “This last video took so much out of me, I think I’ll be taking a little break to recharge. Sorry!” I replied with a crying-cat emoji and breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed she had no plans to post anytime soon. My theory was likely correct. She had probably heard my idea from Joey and rushed to produce it. But could two people have the exact same idea, down to the last detail? For now, I had to chalk it up to a bizarre coincidence. Some people just have similar tastes. I uploaded my finished video to the platform's backend, typed out the caption, and prepared to hit publish. Suddenly, a notification popped up from my burner account. I tapped on it. And my blood ran cold.
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