"VocalLounge – Trending Threads"
At 11:37 PM, the top post on VocalLounge's dynamic board was burning hot.
[Title: The Voice Queen of VocalLounge… Looks Like THIS?! Guess a Pretty Voice Doesn't Mean a Pretty Face!]
Comments poured in like a flood, each one sharper than the last:
> — No way. That's her? HER? I've tipped this chick like five times. Now I feel sick.
— Bro, she's been flaunting that "sweet voice, pretty face" tag since day one. Total scam.
— I used to chill in her streams. People begged her to drop a selfie—sent her gifts, even—but she always said no. Guess we know why now.
— Don't play dumb. Every hot girl posts at least ONE filtered pic. Who the hell spends hundreds just for a nice voice? It always ends the same way.
— Nah, if she was hot, she'd be streaming video, not hiding on an audio app.
— Real talk: pretty voice, pretty face? Urban legend. Grow up, dudes.
— Heard her top donors sent her cash privately too? How's that feel now, boys?
— She returned all private transfers. Chill out. Still, leaking someone's photo is low.
— Agency says she's quitting streaming. Guilty much? Or just running scared?
— Damn, guess the drama's over. At least she gave the money back.
Screenshots of the leaked photo littered the thread—zoomed-in shots, crude edits, even memes with captions like "Voice like an angel, face like a crime scene."
And beneath that, buried under sarcasm and laughter, a few lonely comments whispered:
> — Damn… didn't know people could be this cruel.
— She really sent the money back, though? Respect for that, I guess.
---
Somewhere across the city, in a dim, cramped apartment…
Sasha Lane stared at the glow of her phone screen, heart thudding like a drumline.
Line after line of bank transactions filled the screen—tiny green arrows signaling money flowing out, not in. She was refunding every single private transfer the old Sasha had ever accepted.
Total damage: just under five grand.
Her balance after this little redemption spree? Four hundred bucks. Enough for maybe three days of groceries and rent that was due in—she glanced at the wall calendar—five days.
She exhaled slowly, letting the weight of reality sink in.
The original Sasha had been a rising star on VocalLounge, the biggest voice-streaming platform in North America. No cam, no face—just a voice that could melt butter and make men weak in the knees. She'd hosted every night in the app's busiest music hall, "Velvet Notes." Requests, dedications, whispers after midnight—it was her world.
Until tonight.
Until someone dropped a photo.
Until the internet proved, once again, that hell wasn't a place—it was a comment section.
Sasha opened the chat list. Dozens of names stared back at her, some grayed out after she hit "delete." She didn't care who they were anymore.
If they'd wired her money privately, she paid them back. Period.
All but one.
The last contact on the list.
Stone.
The biggest whale she—or rather, the previous Sasha—had ever hooked.
Her thumb hovered over his name, and for a moment, she just stared.
His profile pic was blank. No bio. Just a single word for a username: Stone.
And the last line of their chat wasn't even text. It was a transfer notification.
$10,000.
Sent two weeks ago.
No message. No emoji. Just cold, silent money.
The old Sasha had tried to reel him in earlier that night—back when she was still alive.
> Sasha: Hey, haven't seen you in the room lately. Everything okay? I kinda miss my top fan 😘
Stone: Busy.
And then, ten seconds later:
$10,000 received.
No further words. No playful banter. Just the kind of quiet dominance that made your pulse skip.
Probably thought she was begging for cash. Which—let's be honest—she was.
The girl whose body I now inhabit had been desperate.
Parents gone. Relatives circling like vultures. Student loans stacked so high they could blot out the sun. Fresh out of college with a useless degree and no safety net.
She came to this city chasing a fantasy of stability. Instead, she found a dead end—until streaming came along.
A classmate once bragged about easy money: "Just sing a few songs, flirt a little, and boom—rent paid."
The old Sasha had the voice for it. Sweet, sultry, like silk over skin. She could shift tones like a chameleon—innocent one second, wicked the next.
So she downloaded VocalLounge, applied through an agency, and put on the mask.
She never expected to like it. But she did.
Behind the safety of an audio stream, no one saw the mark that haunted her—a dark crimson birthmark sprawling from her temple down her cheek, like a splash of spilled wine.
Video streaming was never an option. Not with that face.
So she built her empire with sound. She sold the illusion. She became someone adored.
Until the illusion shattered.
Someone snapped her photo—maybe a jealous rival, maybe a bitter ex-fan—and set it loose.
And just like that, her confidence went up in flames
The messages came next. Mockery. Disgust. People calling her a freak. A scam. A monster.
She broke.
Alone. Penniless. Buried under debt and shame, she swallowed a handful of sleeping pills and waited for darkness.
That's when I woke up in her body.
Now I'm here.
And guess what?
I'm not planning to die.
---
Sasha's fingers moved again, typing out a message to the last man standing on her list:
[Sasha: Hey Stone, I'm sorry for accepting your transfer before. I'll pay it back as soon as I can. Also… I'm leaving VocalLounge. Thanks for everything.]
The cursor blinked.
No reply came.
The silence stretched, heavy and absolute, until the edges of the screen began to blur from the sting in her eyes.
She locked the phone and leaned back against the peeling wallpaper, staring at the ceiling.
Her balance said $400.
Her inbox said ruined.
And yet, somewhere deep inside, a spark flickered to life.
A spark that whispered:
You've got her voice. Her contacts. Her platform account. You know her mistakes. You know how this world works now.
The old Sasha died running.
But I?
I'm going to make them regret underestimating me.
Starting with him.
Stone.
---
To be continued…