Record: Traces of Pursuit

1
/Clack clack clack./
A monotonous sound echoes though the dark. Multiple monitors glow brightly, pouring light into a room where it is otherwise a forgotten dream. Each monitor shows a lithe girl dressed in white. There is a smile on her lips; she looks delighted as she points a long finger into the air. She appears to be singing. In fact, she is a singer with a mass following in a country so technologically advanced the people trust their governance to an AI. But now, there is only faint static coming from the speakers. Her clear voice and controlled breathing go unheard.
/Clack clack clack./
A tired, middle-aged man works at a computer. This is his room; he stares at the screen with dulled eyes as his fingers fly over the keys. With each touch of his rough fingertips, incendiary words are born. He is an online reporter. He can produce endless lines of outrage as easily as others draw breath. Words that pique his readers' curiosity flow from him. Once he ran beneath the sun's rays. Exposed injustice and corruption. Penned articles advocating for the weak. But such lofty ideals could only take him so far. Eventually, he fell on hard times and was forced to change his methods. What job could earn easy money? What specialty could pay better? If he wanted to survive, there was only one choice to make. So now, he puts food on the table by speculating endlessly about the songstress on his monitors.
She is an enigma even in the age of information—and if he could find out who she /truly/ was, he would instantly become rich beyond all measure. He finishes his article, posts it, and quickly moves onto his next tactic. Because there is always something else he must do.

2
As the stream ends, the songstress catches her breath.
...Even though she never grows tired, and does not draw breath to begin with.
That is because she is a high-performance artificial intelligence without a physical form. She quietly works as she flits around cyberspace.
/I just want my music to make people happy./
/But do they understand my message?/
As she begins reading through comments about her most recent performance, her nerves coil into a familiar ball. Words float in the space, reflecting her own elation. They are soft in her hands; she feels the emotion behind them even before reading them.
What a wonderful performance!
Your songs help me forget my troubles.
The sentiments are kind and light, providing her with warmth in turn. Her mood steadies. Her nerves calm. But then, a new comment appears. The words that drift before her are...strange. They are jagged. Oddly shaped. Floating as though laced with something besides mere letters formed into language. Though she is a songstress, she is still an artificial intelligence⁠, and she knows instantly what this comment actually is. It is a probe—an attempt to pin down the servers and programs that stream her concerts.
...An attempt to find out who she is.
For her, doing away with a program like this is as easy as lifting a finger. But upon doing so, she pauses. And thinks. She brings the finger that destroyed the program to her delicate lips, trying to feel out the emotions of the person behind the probe. Such a thing is not unfamiliar; time and again have people tried to learn more about her. Some are motivated by interest. Some by amusement⁠. Though once their efforts fail, they tend to move on to other pursuits. But this one? The person who sent this probe has attempted to find her /thousands/ of times. If she ignores this yet again, there will eventually come a point where the problem becomes something more sinister. So with apprehension churning inside her, she begins her search.

3
By working through network usage history, device addresses, and personal user data, she quickly finds the person pursuing her. Security cameras located throughout the city even allow her to pinpoint his current location. He is middle-aged man with unremarkable features. Yet though his appearance is dull, the irritation coloring his features is anything but.
He mutters to himself, unaware the songstress is watching. No matter how many times he tries to crack her servers, all of his attempts are beaten back. He knows such security is far too extensive for a mere singer, no matter how popular. He had never encountered such security before, not even when corroborating the collusion of massive companies or exposing the dark underbelly of banking institutions. And because he has swum in such dangerous waters before, the man is convinced: The singer is being protected by the government.
The institution before his narrow eyes is quiet, as though resisting all possible speculation. The government is neither a production studio nor an agency. It is unlikely they would expend such security simply to aid the career of a singer. The man believes the singer's true identity must be so terrible, the government has chosen to make it a matter of national security. It's a government cover-up...
A twisted smile bursts across the man's face at the prospect of his greatest scoop.
The unease caused by past trauma is fresh in the girl's mind as she watches. The man may well try to crack more government agencies in search of information. And if that happens, they will not hold back. They will follow his steps, locate him, and remove all trace of his existence. She must convince him to stand down so he might live. But how can she tell him this? She is his target, after all. Finally, after countless calculations, she comes upon the optimal path: A strategy that will utilize her position as a singer.

4
Despite the suddenness of the announcement, many tune in for a livestream of the singer's latest song. Once the countdown ends, the screen shows the singer's normally cherubic face clouded with melancholy. And in that moment, the audience realizes something is wrong⁠. Suddenly, a passionate melody and fervent lyrics spill forth across the screen. It is an intense, heartrending love song.
Stay away from me, my dear.
Should you come closer, you will be burned to ash.
The words that fly across the screen are her own heartfelt message.
/I hope he knows this is about him./
She rests her prayers on a single ray of hope. The moment the stream ends, cyberspace explodes with commentary. The words are excited, a sign her new song has been well received. But no matter how much she searches, she can't find a single one with ulterior motive. Perhaps her song reached the man. Perhaps he has given up on his search. Relieved that her feelings may have reached him, she sighs and feels grateful that the man's better judgment won out in the end.
/I will keep on singing./
/So he can find happiness too./
The room is dark. The lights are out. Multiple monitors shine brightly, revealing the melancholic expression of the singer as she performs her new song.
Stay away from me, my dear.
The lyrics on the screen are for /him/.
And yet, they never reach his dulled eyes.
The singer's brilliance illuminates the keyboard, revealing it to be bathed in red.
The man lies on one side of the room; his brains lie on the other.
All that remains is the faint smell of cordite.
Soon, that, too, will fade away. Just like the man who flew too close to the sun.