A weird out of place couple?

Noah turned to leave. He hadn’t made it past the wine shop’s fake vineyard arch when a new voice cut through. “Come on, George, just pick one. You always act like you care, then grab the cheapest shit.”

Noah turned. A woman stood by the red blend shelf, holding a merlot like she was ready to club someone with it. Mid-forties, still looking fantastic for her age, silver necklace, sleeveless blouse, heels that had no right looking that good. Veronica, the app would later confirm. Beside her, a wiry guy, who looked half her age, winced at the name. His face twitched like he wanted to correct her but didn’t dare.

Noah raised his phone, camera locking on, but the app glitched, red outlines flickering, no ping. The names loaded slowly:

VERONICA (??)

LIAM (??)

Wait, Liam? Wasn’t this dude’s name supposed to be ‘George’?

Liam’s name flashed red. A gray overlay spread across the screen, a message popping up:

Failsafe Engaged. Subject LIAM is linked to an active session via a verified external device. Edits blocked. Privacy and safety protocols enabled. Please respect active sessions.

Noah froze, his pulse spiking. Another user? What the fuck?

Liam’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his face tightening, then scanned the crowd, eyes darting like he knew something was off. “Hey,” he said to Veronica, voice low, urgent. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“What? We just-”

“It’s urgent,” he snapped, grabbing her arm. “Let’s get to the car.”

They hurried past, Veronica sporting an annoyed look, Liam’s eyes locked on exits. Noah watched them vanish around the wine shop’s corner, as the app resetted to idle.

His lips parted, a question forming but unspoken. Another user. Someone else with the app, rewriting reality. His mind raced, but he shoved it down. Not worth obsessing over, not when the mall was bursting with families to break.

He moved past a Cinnabon kiosk, the scent of grease and sugar thick, suddenly feeling hungry he knew where he needed to go next.

He slowed as soon as he hit the food court, the midday chaos a fucking ****. Greasy smells, chattering voices and the clatter of trays. Then he saw them: a long, white table under the skylight, six mothers and their six unwilling companions, a club of some kind, he assumed. They were dressed like they’d stepped out of a Pinterest board, tight yoga pants, pristine sneakers, oversized sunglasses perched like crowns. Each had a salad or smoothie in front of them, their smiles as wooden as the table. The offsprings, five guys and one girl, all seemed to be dragged along like props, sat stiff, caught in their mothers’ performance.

One mom nudged her son’s spine straight. Another wiped sauce from her son’s lip, cooing about his “respect for women.” Noah watched the kid **** on his soda, his face screaming get me out of here. Then there was Isla, her cheer ****, ****, her daughter Camila slouched beside her, hood up, phone clutched like a lifeline. Isla’s eyes darted, checking if anyone noticed her daughter didn’t fit the mom-off’s son-heavy vibe.

“So glad dear Camila could join us” a mom said, her grin tight.

Isla laughed, “Well, Camila begged to come. Couldn’t leave her behind.”

Camila didn’t look up, her silence louder than words.

Noah felt it, their fake love, the competitive glances, the need to perform. It made his skin crawl. He moved closer, pretending to eye a pretzel kiosk, and raised his phone. The camera locked on, violet outlines framing the table: