Read my First Book

 The storm hit Maplewood like a bad algorithm—unpredictable, relentless, and full of hidden agendas. Rain lashed the windows of Sweet Rise Bakery, turning Main Street into a blurry watercolor of gray and neon. Mia Delgado stood behind the counter, her black apron dusted with flour like fresh snow, staring at her phone as if it had personally betrayed her. The feed was a nightmare: endless scrolls of political rants, conspiracy videos, and outrage clips that made her stomach twist. She hadn't liked any of it—hadn't even commented—but there it was, feeding her more poison with every refresh.

 "How does it know?" 

she muttered, slamming a tray of cooling cinnamon rolls onto the rack. The scent of sugar and spice clashed with the bitterness rising in her throat. Her phone buzzed. A notification from Zoltan: Your feed looks like a war zone. Come over. I've got something to show you. She grabbed her raincoat, flipped the "Closed" sign, and dashed three doors down to the garage lair. The half-open door spilled warm LED light into the downpour, a beacon in the chaos. Inside, Zoltan Kovacs lounged in his swivel chair, the black cowboy hat tipped back, his wild beard catching crumbs from a half-eaten croissant. The air hummed with the whir of fans cooling three massive monitors, each displaying cascading code and graphs that pulsed like digital heartbeats.

"Mia, the angry baker arrives," 

he greeted, sliding a mug of black coffee her way. 

"Sit. You're about to meet your digital twin."

She shed her dripping coat and plopped down, arms crossed. 

"My what? "

Zoltan spun a monitor toward her. On it was a mirror image of her social feed—but dissected, with glowing overlays showing connections, predictions, and data flows.

"This," he said, tapping the screen, "is your digital mirror. Every like, every scroll, every pause—it's watching. Learning. Reflecting back what it thinks you want. Or what someone wants you to want. "

Mia leaned in, her dark eyes narrowing. The graph showed spikes: one for a wellness video she'd watched last week, branching into fitness ads; another for a heated news clip she'd accidentally lingered on, exploding into partisan echo chambers.

"It's... me? But twisted."

"Exactly," 

Zoltan said, his hazel eyes twinkling with that mad-scientist glee. 

"The algorithm's like a puppy—eager to please, but if you reward the wrong tricks, it turns into a monster. Click on outrage? Boom, more drama. But feed it growth? Watch this."

He pulled up a simulation on another screen.