I scroll.
The next photo hits me with color – pink hair, grin mid‑laugh, the crowded blur of a concert behind her.

Harper Doyle. Twenty‑four.
Sound technician, guitarist, former vocalist in a small band.

She looks like someone who thinks life is supposed to be lived loudly. I have no idea how someone like her ended up in a beauty pageant. Or why the pageant was a gateway to this hell. The organizers must’ve wanted variety… or contrast. She shouldn’t be here. Not in a room where her only future is silence.