A new app promises the ultimate test of loyalty: digital funerals. For a small fee, you can vanish from every feed, every message thread, every corner of the web — "offline forever" — and watch from the shadows to see who still notices, who still cares.

For Zoe, it begins as a dare. One night, one disappearance, one chance to measure her worth in the faces of friends and family. But when she wakes the next morning, the world has already moved on without her. Her name is gone from school records. Her parents don't remember her. Every trace of her life has been deleted — not just online, but everywhere.

And then the silence begins.

A silence that doesn't wait for answers, but feeds. It whispers through phones and mirrors, grows louder in empty rooms, reshapes towns into graveyards of glowing screens. It doesn't want her to come back. It wants her to surrender — to be weapon, curse, queen, sacrifice. To burn the world with her fire until nothing remains but its endless hunger.

But Zoe isn't alone. Lila, the one person who still remembers, refuses to let go. Together they are hunted across collapsing towns, through cults and processions, into the very heart of a cathedral built from their fears. Every step forward means choosing each other in defiance of prophecy, contradiction, and erasure.

Yet every vow comes at a cost. The hunger doesn't want love. It wants silence — final, absolute, eternal.

Offline Forever is a harrowing descent into a world where identity can be rewritten with one swipe, where memory is fragile as static, and where survival depends not on being seen, but on refusing to vanish.

In the end, this is not a story about disappearing.
It's a story about choosing to remain — even when the world itself wants you gone.