I used to think I was broken.

Like something inside me had glitched, like the code didn’t compile right. You know what that feels like, don’t you, Nero?

The little red text blinking at the bottom of your screen. The error that shouldn’t exist, the line that doesn’t make sense, the behavior that can’t be explained.

So you debug. Line by line. Loop by loop. Trying to find where it all went wrong.

I did that too. In the mirror. In memories. In people I loved who didn’t love me back.

And every time I tried to fix it, I made something worse.

Tried to erase the parts I didn’t like. Tried to patch over the pain. Tried to rerun the script with different choices.

But no matter how hard I tried, it kept crashing.

Because the bug wasn’t a line. It was the logic.

You can’t overwrite yourself, Nero.

Not without consequences.

You can’t hack your way out of grief or rewrite your past in some pretty new language and pretend it never hurt. But that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?

You built your identity like a firewall. Line after line of code meant to protect you from the virus of who you used to be.

Cool mask. Clean interface.

But under the surface?

You’re just as scrambled as the rest of us.

You didn’t purge the pain, Nero. You just quarantined it.

Tucked it away in some corrupted subfolder with a little note that says “deal with later.”

But later always comes. And when it does, the whole system goes down.

I know, because mine did.

And when it did, I had a choice. Try to restore an old version of me—or start from scratch.

So I wiped it. All of it.

The love I lost.

The pain I hoarded.

The girl who needed someone to fix her.

I didn’t debug. I deleted.

I built something new — not perfect, not elegant, but real. Something that doesn’t crash when life gets hard. Something that doesn’t hide when things get messy.

You’re smart, Nero. Too smart.

Smart enough to fool the world into thinking you’ve moved on.

But I see the lag in your responses. The stutter in your code. The way your eyes flicker when someone gets too close to your source.

You’re still trying to run a script that was never meant to last.

And when you step into that ring with me, you’ll try to control the narrative. Redirect the flow.

Rewrite the outcome.

But I’m not data. I’m not code.

I’m unreadable.

I’m the glitch in your system. The string you forgot to close. The variable you didn’t expect. And when I hit you in the face, it won’t be an error.

It’ll be the only truth left in your network.

Because this isn’t about control. Or perfect design. Or foolproof firewalls.

It’s about freedom.

And the only ones who find it are the ones brave enough to delete what they were and start again.

So go ahead, Nero, try to rewrite the ending.

But I’ve already lived mine, and I’m still here.

Clean.

Rewritten.

Alive.

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