Glittering neon spires pierced the smog-choked sky outside the penthouse window.
Beneath those towering glass castles, the hierarchy of Disney pulsed like a neon heartbeat.
Millions of citizens moved through the streets, their lives governed by the cold, unforgiving algorithms of the Magic Kingdom Index.
Monitors the size of skyscrapers projected the faces of the top-ranking royalty.
Elsa's frosty, flawless smile illuminated the northern sector.
Rapunzel's glowing hair spun across a massive digital billboard in the commercial district.
Every princess was a brand, a walking conglomerate of box-office history, merchandising power, and streaming metrics.
Snow White had always occupied the highest peak of this digital mountain.
Her 1937 masterpiece was the bedrock upon which this entire metropolis was built.
But bedrock could crumble, and today, the ground beneath her feet was shaking.
Turning away from the window, Snow stared at the glowing tablet on her marble vanity.
Red digits bled onto her pale skin.
Forty-two point five.
Yesterday, her index had been a comfortable, untouchable ninety-eight.
Now, her live-action reboot's disastrous premiere was dragging her down into the abyss.
Notifications flooded the screen in a merciless torrent.
"Outdated," one popular film critic wrote.
"A spineless relic of a bygone era," another posted, garnering hundreds of thousands of likes.
Brutal video essays popped up with thumbnails of her face distorted into a clownish caricature.
Each ping from the tablet felt like a physical blow, a sharp needle popping her bubble of safety.
Panic, cold and heavy, settled in the pit of her stomach.
She could feel her physical body reacting to the loss of public favor.
Gazing down at her hands, she let out a soft, horrified gasp.
Light from the desk lamp shone directly through her fingers.
She could clearly see the mahogany wood grain of the vanity through her palm.
Her skin was losing its density, turning translucent like wet parchment.
In this metropolis, popularity was physical mass.
If her index dropped below thirty, she would lose her physical form entirely.
She would become a fading projection, a ghost destined for the dark, silent archives of the Vault.
Images of her past flashed behind her eyelids.
Dark, clawing branches reaching for her in the suffocating blackness of the forest.
Cold wind howled her name as she ran, entirely alone, abandoned by everyone she trusted.
She had spent her entire life trying to avoid that darkness again.
She had smiled, she had sung, she had kept the peace at all costs.
Conflict was a monster she refused to feed.
But now, that monster was knocking on her door.
Actually, it didn't even bother to knock.
Lock slid back with a digital chime.
Footsteps echoed across the imported marble floor.
Sharp, rhythmic, and heavy with the weight of absolute certainty.
Snow spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Standing in the entryway was Cinderella.
Her posture was flawless, her spine a rigid line of corporate pride.
A tailored, ice-blue blazer clung to her frame, the sharp shoulders accenting her commanding presence.
Her golden hair was swept into a sleek, modern updo, not a single strand out of place.
She held a shattered glass slipper in her right hand, its jagged edges catching the ambient neon light from the window.
A predatory smirk played on her perfectly painted lips.
"Oh, look at you," Cinderella murmured, her voice dripping with mock sympathy.
She stepped into the penthouse, her high heels clicking like a countdown.
"Fairest of them all, reduced to a cheap hologram."
Snow backed away, her thighs hitting the edge of the vanity table.
She wanted to speak, to demand that Cinderella leave her private quarters, but her throat felt dry as ash.
Her paralyzing fear of confrontation gripped her like a physical hand around her neck.
Arguments were a nightmare.
She hated the sharp, ugly energy of rivalry.
So, she remained silent, her wide eyes darting to the shattered glass in Cinderella's hand.
"What do you want, Ella?" Snow finally whispered, her voice barely a breath.
Cinderella chuckled, a low, melodic sound that sent a shiver straight down Snow's spine.
She raised the broken slipper, turning it slowly so the light danced off the sharp, fractured heel.
Cinderella walked over to the vanity table, her fingers brushing past a crystal bowl filled with red apples.
She picked up one, turning it in her hand.
"Still keeping up the old aesthetic, I see," Cinderella mused, her voice dripping with dry amusement.
"A bit outdated, don't you think?"
She tossed the apple lightly into the air and caught it.
Each catch was effortless, a display of perfect coordination and supreme confidence.
"Modern audiences want sleek. They want interactive."
"They don't want a girl who waits for a prince to wake her up with a kiss."
"They want a girl who takes what she wants."
Placing the apple back into the bowl with a soft clink, she smirked.
Snow watched her, her heart hammering.
She wanted to tell Cinderella to get out of her room, to leave her things alone.
But the words wouldn't come.
Paralyzing fear of conflict held her tongue.
She had always been this way.
When the Queen had threatened her life, she didn't fight back.
She had run.
She had hidden in the woods, hoping the danger would go away.
But now, there was nowhere to run.
Metropolis of Disney was a golden cage, and Cinderella was the one holding the key.
"Boards are lighting up, Snow. Your MKI is dropping faster than a lead weight."
"Executives are already talking about a rewrite. Or a quiet retirement."
"They want to put you in the Vault."
Vault was a living death, a cold storage where forgotten characters faded into static.
She had seen what happened to the others who fell from grace.
Sleeping Beauty had tried to numb the pain with sleeping pills, retreating into a permanent coma.
Ariel had signed her voice away to a shady record label just to stay relevant.
Now, it was Snow's turn to face the chopping block.
"No," Snow gasped, her hands clutching her chest.
Through her thin silk robe, her palms pressed against her ribs.
She could feel her heart beating, but she could also see the outlines of her ribs through her own flesh.
She was dissolving.
"Please, Ella... I just need time," Snow pleaded, her gentle nature betraying her.
Audience will come around.
They always do.
"No, they won't," Cinderella snapped, her blue eyes flashing with a sudden, vicious intensity.
She stepped closer, invading Snow's personal space.
Scent of expensive jasmine and metallic ozone rolled off her.
"They want someone who can command a room, not a fragile little girl who hides in the woods."
Kingdoms require a queen.
Cinderella's gaze dropped to Snow's lips, her expression shifting from mocking amusement to something darker, heavier.
An intense, suffocating silence filled the room.
Snow could hear the hum of the city outside, but inside, the air felt thick, almost electric.
She felt a strange, terrifying pull toward the woman standing before her.
Cinderella was so solid, so real.
Her MKI score was probably sitting at a comfortable ninety-nine.
She radiated a physical warmth, a dense, heavy presence that Snow's fading body desperately craved.
It was a toxic, dangerous sensation.
Snow wanted to push her away, but her hands wouldn't move.
Her mind screamed at her to flee, but her legs were lead.
"You always thought you were better than us," Cinderella whispered, her voice dangerously soft.
She reached out with her free hand, her long, manicured fingers hovering just a millimeter above Snow's pale cheek.
She didn't touch her, not yet.
Anticipation was agonizing.
Original princess. Sacred blueprint.
"But look at you now. You're nothing but a whisper."
Snow's lower lip trembled.
She felt a single, perfect tear slip down her cheek.
It ran past Cinderella's hovering fingers, falling onto the marble floor with a soft, barely audible patter.
Cinderella's eyes followed the tear, a dark, pleased smile spreading across her face.
Watching the absolute helplessness of her rival sent a thrill of dark pleasure through Cinderella's veins.
For years, Cinderella had lived in the shadow of the 1937 masterpiece, forced to play the sweet, accommodating heroine.
But the modern era had freed her.
It had allowed her to unleash the ruthless, dominant force she truly was.
And now, she had the original princess at her mercy.
Slowly, Cinderella closed the remaining distance between them.
Her body pressed against Snow's, forcing the fading princess back against the cold glass of the vanity mirror.
Snow gasped, the sudden physical contact sending a jolt of electricity through her entire being.
Cinderella's chest pressed against hers, firm and solid.
Contrast was dizzying.
Snow felt like water, while Cinderella was solid stone.
A strange, warm flush crept up Snow's neck, a stark contrast to the icy panic that had gripped her moments before.
Legacy meant nothing compared to the raw power Cinderella wielded right now.
But the physical sensation of being held, of being anchored to the world by Cinderella's crushing weight, was intoxicating.
She closed her eyes, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
"Open your eyes, Snow," Cinderella commanded.
Her voice held the weight of a royal decree.
Snow obeyed, her dark eyes locking onto Cinderella's piercing blue gaze.
Intensity in those eyes was terrifying.
It was a gaze that demanded absolute surrender.
Cinderella raised the shattered glass slipper, the jagged edge glittering inches from Snow's face.
Snow's breath hitched, her body tensing as she prepared for a blow.
But Cinderella didn't strike.
Instead, she lowered the sharp shard, her hand moving with agonizing slowness.
Cool air of the penthouse seemed to freeze around them.
Cinderella steps into Snow's personal space, whispering, 'You are fading, darling,' as she presses a sharp shard of glass directly against Snow's trembling collarbone.