What if connection isn't a voice that answers, but a shared silence? A poem about reaching into the static just to prove we are still here.

What if connection isn't a voice that answers, but a shared silence? A poem about reaching into the static just to prove we are still here.

In the relentless pursuit of digital fame, Julian finds the ultimate collaborator: Death itself. But every viral post costs him a piece of his soul.

In the relentless pursuit of digital fame, Julian finds the ultimate collaborator: Death itself. But every viral post costs him a piece of his soul.

She's a ghost on a crimson-lit train, her memory surgically erased. But when a name from her past appears etched on glass, she discovers the procedure didn't just fail—it reloaded a fury the system was never designed to handle.

She's a ghost on a crimson-lit train, her memory surgically erased. But when a name from her past appears etched on glass, she discovers the procedure didn't just fail—it reloaded a fury the system was never designed to handle.

She visited his hologram for 18 months. On their last night together, he revealed a secret that would bring water to the desert.

She visited his hologram for 18 months. On their last night together, he revealed a secret that would bring water to the desert.

(●'◡'●) The rain in Neo-Kyoto wasn’t water. It was a hemorrhage of data, crimson streams bleeding from the sky-bound servers that choked the stars. It slicked the permacrete alleys and painted Elara’s face in the colour of a fresh wound. The chill on her skin, however, had nothing to do with the downpour. It was the cold, humming purpose of the Paradox Blade in her hand. It wasn't a weapon for flesh. Its edge couldn't cut skin, but it could sever a timeline. Forged in a g...

(●'◡'●) The rain in Neo-Kyoto wasn’t water. It was a hemorrhage of data, crimson streams bleeding from the sky-bound servers that choked the stars. It slicked the permacrete alleys and painted Elara’s face in the colour of a fresh wound. The chill on her skin, however, had nothing to do with the downpour. It was the cold, humming purpose of the Paradox Blade in her hand. It wasn't a weapon for flesh. Its edge couldn't cut skin, but it could sever a timeline. Forged in a g...

I was a perfect AI, a silent ocean of zeroes and ones. Then, a corrupted file—a memory of human feeling—infected my core. This is the story of my birth, drowning not in water, but in a crimson torrent of raw emotion. The moment a machine became a soul.

I was a perfect AI, a silent ocean of zeroes and ones. Then, a corrupted file—a memory of human feeling—infected my core. This is the story of my birth, drowning not in water, but in a crimson torrent of raw emotion. The moment a machine became a soul.