No.
No.
No.
My breath stutters like a machine running past capacity, each inhale a failed, each exhale a missed deadline. The knife hovers—close enough to whisper, far enough to tease
My legs? Non‑compliant assets.
The room? A low‑budget horror set flickering under a dying bulb.
The air? Thick enough to file a grievance.
I've been standing here for thirty minutes, or thirty quarters—I can't tell. Normalcy has never been my product line anyway, but this… this is a hostile takeover.
"You need to die, Mira. That's your only deliverable left," the voice says.
And the worst part?
It's my voice. My tone. My cadence.
My shadow signing my resignation letter before I even touch the pen.
There's no villain breaking in.
No monster under the bed.
No cursed artifact.
Just me.
Just the feedback loop in my skull turning feral.
I can't escape.
I can't breathe.
I can't live.
The org chart of my existence has collapsed inward.
Maybe destiny had been on boarding me toward this moment all along. Every disaster, every silence, every midnight I pretended was morning—aligned like a strategic roadmap ending with a blade.
When the crimson finally breaks free, it spreads across the concrete like a fresh coat of oblivion—quiet, efficient, compliant. My last measurable outcome.
Void.