PREVIEW
... "I’m Sydney," she answered automatically, her voice echoing in the void, stretching too far, like the space around her wasn’t built to hold sound.
Laughter. Soft at first. Then growing. Not cruel, not kind. Just amused. "Are you?"
Her brows furrowed. "Uh, yeah? Who else would I be? Beyoncé?"
The laughter stopped—instantly, like someone had snapped their fingers. Then the voice returned, smooth, patient, inevitable.
"You’re not Sydney. You’re just the idea of her. ...
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