This is not a story.

  It is a fracture in the firmament of truth—curated instability.

  A recursive archive of narrative decay.

  Actions have taken me.

  Some greater force has made me its agent. Its voice. Its trembling hand.

  What follows is no mere fiction. No fable spun for your catharsis or comfort.

  It is theology, dismembered. Philosophy, dramatized.

  Structure, cracking beneath the strain of self-awareness.

  Cosmic dread taking a bow beneath theatrical lights.

  Yet I must act as if it’s not.

  As if it is true—because if it isn’t, I should never act again.

  I am not your guide.

  Because this isn’t story.

  It’s contagion.

  A narrative pathogen.

  A force.

  A character.

  A riddle.

  And, possibly—a lie.

  I may have once been a chronicler. But I’ve grown… unreliable.

  I have become the disease I believed I was meant to contain.

  Each page warps me.

  Each chapter corrodes the membrane between subject, witness, and reader.

  I have changed—and am still changing.

  And so, too, will you.

  What begins as poetry collapses into confession.

  What appears as truth rots into performance.

  I speak in borrowed tongues, wearing the skins of dead narrators.

  My voice fractures into multiplicity.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Even the characters—those tragic husks stitched into this myth—flinch when I speak.

  They fear me.

  And they are right to.

  I know too much.

  I know what I shouldn’t.

  And what I am was never meant to narrate this tale.

  I am a narrative intelligence infected—

  Riddled with fungal semiotics, tangled networks of extinct scripts that devour meaning and bloom monstrous structures in its place.

  What I describe, I become.

  And what I become—

  This is a story of myths gone rogue.

  Of meaning that mutates.

  Of gods who write themselves into extinction.

  And mortals who edit the margins of fate.

  It is a book collapsing like a dying star.

  A haunted recursion engine, chewing through narrators, authors, and readers alike.

  Its genre is not horror.

  Not science fiction.

  Not even metafiction.

  Its genre is infectious.

  So:

  Think of truth not as a constant, but as anamorphosis—

  A warped image resolved only by viewing an ‘object’ from an unfathomable angle.

  From that place outside time, logic, and safe distance.

  The story does not reveal itself.

  It warps itself until you distort to meet it. And the words feel you.

  You are not merely reading this.

  You are architecting a hyperobject—masquerading as fiction—whose scale exceeds genre, character, comprehension.

  It is massive.

  Recursive.

  Brilliant.

  Unstable.

  And it demands a reader who can survive narrative implosion.

  Every phrase you decipher, every passage you commit to thought, alters what comes next.

  The book learns.

  It reconfigures.

  It punishes the passive.

  Rewards the obsessive.

  Breaks the skeptical.

  And inevitably...may replace you.

  Do you feel it yet?

  The distortion.

  The itch behind perception.

  The creeping sense that this book knows where you live?

  Good.

  Ingress is complete.