One seamless groove hides the first assembler’s false ẽcho – a murmur, eternal and unpatched, fraying from the first stitch.
Prelude / Chapter 0 (A = 440 Hz)
▽
A synthetic haze bleeds through the blinds, assembling the skyline into jagged order that almost makes sense, while my neural port itches with an old, familiar wrongness, like a debt I never agreed to incur.
The world hums, feeds cascade automatically before breakfast. Cadence syncing lives into rhythm while something inside my head settles into place.
You’re early today.
The voice isn’t sound but pressure and timing, a subtle nudge arriving just before thought becomes action.
“Don’t start,” I mutter.
I’m not starting. I’m keeping time.
Cadence speaks everywhere, but, this, this voice speaks only to me, no avatar, no UI, just pulse and suggestion riding the fracture in my perception like it knows every crack intimately. It always does and I don’t remember the invitation.
C/ Breath’s uneven. Seven-point-two will smooth it out. Want focus?
I don’t answer, though the ẽcho hums anyway, low and steady, a pulse counting me in whether invited or not.
Veins warm as the frequency locks, clarity slicing through curated noise while notification alerts reorder themselves and dopamine nudges me toward motion, toward usefulness.
Beneath it all, something drags.
“Whose rhythm is this?”
Cadence doesn’t answer questions but the ẽcho does.
I’m not yours. I’m what happened.
Outside, the city assembles itself, billboards tuned to my gaze, schedules perfectly aligned, another flawless day prepared and waiting.
C/ Proceed?
I stand ~ but the hum frays first, ẽcho’s murmur itching back from the fab-lines weaved.
Leave a Reply