You wake up inside a monologue that already decided who you are. It’s been running all night—replaying failed conversations, drafting new ones, projecting an ending to a story no one else is reading. The voice is you, but it’s also not. It’s something older. Something desperate. Something that thinks it’s a prophet.Spoiler: it’s not.Welcome. The future has been imagined for you, with zero budget and infinite confidence. The plotlines are wild: She leaves. You lose your job. You die alone. Or ...