I'm starin' down the lens, and it's like lookin' into an abyss that's swallowed the guy I used to be. These wires, they're not just connected to my body; they're tethered to whatever's left of my soul. It's a mental labyrinth, and every thought's a dead-end, every emotion's a flickerin' light about to go out. I keep pullin' on these threads, hopin' to find some fragment of me that's still real, still human. But the more I pull, the more they unravel, 'til there's nothin' left to hold onto. The last flicker of emotion, the last shred of hope— it's all gone. I'm just a shell in a world that's moved on, a ghost in the machine with no place to haunt.
Amid the static haze of a life more wired than free, I stand—half flesh, half fantasy—a question burned into the code of my being: "Who?" Each spark is a synapse firing, a memory I can't quite catch. F*ck, what does it mean to be me when every breath is a hiss of circuits? They thought they'd built a machine, but inside this cybernetic chaos, there's a soul screaming to break free. Lost in the glitch, I'm a ghost in the shell, and the only thing I'm certain of is this relentless, gnawing uncertainty. Who the hell am I?