Chapter 1: Blood, Yolk, Ketchup

The egg lay motionless on the stainless steel surface, pale and pristine in the silence. Its round yolk sat swollen at the center, vibrant and golden, suspended within the glassy, formless cushion of egg white that spread around it like a frozen halo.

A needle descended slowly from above, its silver tip glinting under the sterile light. It hovered for a beat, as if considering the target, then pierced the yolk dead center with surgical precision. From the barrel, a thin stream of fluorescent yellow fluid pushed forward, unnaturally bright, like something that didn't belong in anything organic.

At first, nothing. Then, a twitch. Subtle. Barely there.

The yolk quivered.

A ripple moved across the membrane.

And then — a swelling. A soft bulge rising from the side of the yolk like a blister. It pulsed and it grew.

Slowly, a second orb began to form, smaller at first, but gaining mass with each heartbeat, feeding off the first like a parasite, like a twin that had finally found its shape.

And then... it detached.

Now there were two.

They sat side by side in eerie symmetry. The second yolk gleamed with a perfection the first lacked looking smoother, fuller, too round, too flawless. If the first was nature, the second was something else. Something designed.

A long silence followed. No movement. Just the two yolks beside each other, suspended in the moment. One real. One... improved.

Then followed Darkness.

And the silence shattered.

---

The sounds of jackhammers, honking cars, and distant grinding metal crashed into the void, the heartbeat of a restless city at work, tearing itself apart to make itself new.

The sidewalk was a cold, dull gray and sunlit but lifeless. Cracks webbed across the concrete slabs like veins in tired skin. One square was missing, a crude, uneven cavity breaking the uniformity. An open wound in the pavement.

From the top-down, the view was surgical. Controlled and Distant.

Two gloved hands revealed themselves looking methodical and practiced. They moved without hesitation, fitting thin strips of wood together, the quiet tap of nails against grain echoing faintly in the city's dull roar. The sticks connected one by one, not randomly, but into something precise and intentional.

A five-pointed star.

The wooden frame nested perfectly inside the hollowed square, sharp and symmetrical against the dirt-packed void around it. The hands worked silently and efficiently. This was a ritual, not labor.

Next came the letters — solid brass, heavy in the hand, shining with a luster that spoke of effort and illusion. They descended slowly, spaced with care, spelling out a name piece by piece:

E... L... I... Z... A... B... E... T... H...

S... P... A... R... K... L... E

The name radiated across the plywood skeleton, bold and confident, like it had always belonged there. Below it, a circular emblem, the outline of a classic film camera, was pressed into place and its edges catching light like a symbol or a claim.

The star was not born. It was assembled.

A slab of soft pink marble slid into the golden frame like the final piece of a puzzle. It clicked into place, flawless, a delicate blush framed in brass. A brief pause followed, a moment of reverence, perhaps.

Then motion resumed.

Plastic film was peeled back with a whisper. A broom swept deliberately across the surface, coaxing a dull gleam into full shine. The bristles traced the points of the star, crossing the name over and over until the gold lettering practically pulsed with light.

And there it was.

ELIZABETH SPARKLE

Carved into the sidewalk of Hollywood, real, immovable and eternal. Or at least, that was the illusion.

---

Time passed.

At first, it was just a single leaf, light and crumpled, tumbling across the newly laid star with the grace of something lost. The wind teased it forward, brushing it gently over the pink marble and golden letters before carrying it off again. Then came the feet.

One pair, then another, a passersby drifting into across and out again. Heels, sandals, sneakers. Feet that didn't stop. Feet that didn't look down. They moved with purpose, with disinterest and with distraction. They passed over the star like it was part of the sidewalk, not a monument.

The pace quickened. Day became week. Week became season.

Rain polished the concrete and pooled in its cracks; then the sun dried it into a patchwork of mud rings and faint salt marks. Fashion shifted above the ankles, hemlines rose, fell, stretched into neon yoga pants or pinched into ankle boots. New tourists arrived with fanny packs and oversized cameras, snapping photos, talking too loudly. Pigeons landed in pairs, heads twitching, eyeing shiny things. A shopping cart rattled by, one wheel squealing as it dragged across the golden name: ELISABETH SPARKLE

She was still there.

The name, the carefully set star looking unchanged, and yet changed. Faint scratches emerged like crow's feet. The marble dulled. The lettering lost some of its shine. No ceremony marked the erosion. No one noticed.

Occasionally, a few people paused. Looked down. Took a photo. But less and less. New stars appeared, creeping into view from the edges, names fresher, bolder and more relevant. Feet swiveled toward those. Attention migrated.

Then came the sneakers.

White, but smeared with the evidence of wandering with dust, street grime, bits of grass caught in the sole. They ambled lazily into view, stopping just long enough to drop something: a hamburger bun, perfectly round, bouncing once on impact before landing flat on Elisabeth Sparkle.

A slow bleed of ketchup spread outward like a wound, thick and glistening. It pooled into the star's crevices, circling the gold letters like a halo turned sickly.

The tourist bent lazily, one hand reaching for a greasy napkin already too soaked to help. He dabbed once, then gave up. His sneaker smeared the rest, dragging a red streak diagonally across the marble like a careless signature. And then, he walked away.

The ketchup dried slowly.

The star remained, alone in the center of the world's indifference.

ELISABETH SPARKLE

Now smudged. Forgotten. Marked not by glory, but by grease.

Then the soundscape swelled with traffic horns, slamming doors, a hundred overlapping voices, a city forever in motion, swallowing memory whole. And then, under the noise, something else emerged.

Music.

Pulsing and bright. Synth-heavy and almost militaristic in its optimism. Over it, a woman's voice rang out, amplified, cheerful and insistent:

"Keep moving! That's great! YOU GOT IT!"

"Walk it back! Couple more! YOU GOT IT!"

"Again from the very top!"

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NOTE:

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