Their data trails evaporate, conversations redact in real-time, memory caches scramble into white noise.

Killswitch

Cold Boot Revelation

An identity assigned, not chosen. A barcode where a name used to be

 a hint of recollection that never quite surfaces

a soft counterpoint to the static of your doubts

Childhood bedrooms, rain-slicked alleys, half-remembered conversations

a covert intelligence unit in furred form, observing the collapse of human coherence with detachment and quiet disdain.

A boardroom with no walls.
A table of empty suits.
A chair pulled out, waiting.

life is not the main process.
It’s the side effect.