Entangled のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 10

The train hums beneath me, steady like a heartbeat that never quite matches my own. The whole carriage feels wrapped in that early morning hush, the kind that pretends to be peaceful while everyone inside is already bracing for the day. Pressed suits breathe in. Polished shoes shuffle. Screens glow in pale blue light, turning every face into a tiny moon. I stand among them, trying to blend in, my hand hooked on the strap above me, my tote tucked tight against my hip like it holds whatever is left of me.My reflection stares back from the glass panel. Ponytail pulled neat enough to look intentional. Navy blouse that never wrinkles no matter how much the train sways. Beige skirt I bought on sale during a lunch break when I told myself I needed to start looking like someone who belonged. Lifestyle Editor of Echelon Singapore. Twenty-five and freshly relocated. A one bedroom on Tomson Road, gleaming and quiet, handed to me as part of the transfer. Anyone else would call it a jackpot. My p

The first thing Sofia noticed when she woke was the sound of her phone buzzing nonstop on the nightstand.She rolled over, squinting at the glow. Not her alarm. Notifications. Dozens of them, vibrating so hard it felt like the phone might leap off the table.Her stomach tightened. She unlocked the screen with trembling fingers.#TristanJacinto.The hashtag was everywhere.Her feed was flooded with grainy photos taken in the alley behind Elysium Club. Tristan Jacinto, pressed against a woman against the wall, his hair a mess, his suit jacket open. His hand gripped her thigh, her dress hiked up, his mouth buried against her neck. It looked damning, intimate, impossible to explain away.The woman’s face was blurred, but her outline, dark hair, curved jaw, small frame, was enough.And then Sofia saw her own name.Sofia Reyes.Threads on X dissected her graduation photos. TikTok edits zoomed in frame by frame. Instagram collages plastered her staff headshot beside Tristan with captions lik

The walk from Carrie’s office to corporate communications stretched out like some slow march toward judgment. Sofia kept her gaze glued to the polished floor tiles, watching her own reflection rippling across the faint shine. Every step felt heavier than the last. Conversations hushed as she passed, the kind where people pretend they are whispering about quarterly targets but their eyes give them away. She felt each glance like tiny pricks along her spine. If she could sink into the marble and vanish into the building’s architecture, she would have done it gladly.The comms department was tucked at the end of the hall, a smaller office with dimmer lights, as if the place itself understood the importance of subtlety. Two staffers sat inside, both bent over glowing screens. Each monitor displayed the same nightmare: her name stamped across X threads, TikTok edits looping her face beside someone else’s, Facebook posts that twisted half-truths into something monstrous.One of the officers

Tristan Jacinto scrolled through his phone with the lazy confidence of someone who had never once dealt with real consequences. His thumb drifted in slow, bored arcs across the screen while his other hand held a heavy crystal glass, the whiskey inside barely touched. It wasn’t even lunchtime. Not that he cared. Time was just another luxury he abused.His name was trending again.He tapped the hashtag with a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Photos. Headlines. Commentary written by strangers who talked as if they knew him personally. The same recycled script spilled down the screen like some tired prophecy: billionaire heir, professional disaster, beloved menace. Someone had already made a new meme of him stepping out of that alley beside Elysium, the flash from a paparazzi camera catching him mid smirk. The alley had turned into a tourist attraction overnight, people posing where he’d stood, laughing like they’d uncovered buried treasure.He snorted. Humans were strange.

By Friday, Sofia had perfected the art of hiding, which honestly felt like an Olympic sport at that point. She moved through her week like a ghost with a day job. She only left her apartment for work, and even then she wrapped herself in layers of anonymity. Cap pulled low, curls shoved beneath the brim, mask pulled up like a shield. Half the time she felt like a witness being escorted into court, not an editorial staffer heading into Echelon.At the office, she kept her eyes glued to the floor tiles or her laptop screen. No detours, no chitchat, no pausing by the pantry for gossip she usually enjoyed. She walked fast, talked little, and avoided every stray glance that lingered too long. She felt watched even when she wasn’t. The online world had turned her into a spectacle, and now the real world felt unsafe too.Her inbox was a graveyard. Unopened messages from her parents, her cousins, her brother in Singapore. All of them were some variation of “Anak, are you okay?” or “Please cal