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Sweet Delia and Her Seventy-Nine Sour Secrets

1) By the age of eight, Delia York knew how to get inside things — not just the hearts of angels, but also the minds of grown-up boys, who would later refer to it as their 'awakening'.

2) The director told the actress playing Delia: "Play it innocent." She replied, "I am innocent... especially in the very spot you're planning your close-up on."

3) In the chapel, Delia wasn't just admiring the cross — she was checking how sharp the demon's sword was.

4) You know why the film Omen IV: The Awakening has so many close-ups of Delia’s eyes? Because the cameraman couldn't take his lens off them.

5) Delia didn't just say her bedtime prayers — she was testing how deep the nightmares could go.

6) She never asked for birthday gifts. She would just whisper, "I want you to serve me... until midnight."

7) Her mother, Karen York, found an entry in her diary: "Today the teacher asked for a volunteer. I said I'm always ready... especially for one-on-one lessons."

8) Meanwhile, her father, Gene York, noticed that ever since Delia started elementary school, all the men in the building had developed a strange... problem with their trousers.

9) Delia didn't just love the swings in the yard. She knew: the higher you fly, the more you can see from under a skirt. And she never hid a thing. Especially from the holy fathers.

10) In the school library, she asked for an anatomy book. The librarian blushed and said, "You're too young for that!" Delia smiled, "But are you old enough to show me everything?"

11) In shop class, she made her dad a present — a little wooden box. On the inside of the lid, she carved: "I'll only open for whoever gets in first."

12) In Sunday school, Delia wasn't just drawing — she was leaving her wet fingerprints on the pews after the lesson on Holy Communion.

13) Her dad asked why the neighbor's boy ran off screaming, "She said I'd fit!" Delia just smiled, "I only suggested we play doctor... to completion."

14) Delia wasn't just reading the Book of Revelation — she was underlining every passage about "the bloody awakening of the flesh" in the chapter on the Whore of Babylon.

15) During swimming lessons at the pool, she never took her swimsuit off — yet, for some reason, all the boys were convinced it had just slipped.

16) During confession, she whispered to the priest, "I sin... especially when I think about you punishing me."

17) Delia didn't just bring flowers home — she'd pick the ones with the longest stems and ask her dad, "Do you get this hard when you see me, too?"

18) The kindergarten teacher noticed all the boys came back from the playground with dirty trousers — and Delia was always there, saying, "I just taught them how to dig deeper."

19) Delia didn't just eat in the kitchen — she'd lean over so low that all the male servants could get a perfect view of what was under her skirt.

20) That evening, when Delia went to bed, her parents were puzzled: for some reason, her bed seemed to have a lot of extra space.

21) Her father noticed that ever since Delia was adopted, all the condoms in the house started mysteriously disappearing. Even from the locked cabinet.

22) Delia didn't just sit on her father's lap — she'd whisper, "You do want to be my first, don't you?" and press against the spot where things were starting to grow.

23) Her mother found a note under Delia's pillow: "I wish daddy would 'punish' me for being bad... especially if he's not wearing any pants."

24) In the York family portrait, Delia stands in the center. Everyone's looking at the camera — while her little hand snakes its way toward her father's belt... and is just about to reach the zipper.

25) Delia didn't just pretend to sleep on her father's lap at the clinic — she lay in such a way that her skirt would slowly ride up, revealing to the passing gynecologists what they really shouldn't have been seeing.

26) Seeing a bowl of egg-shaped candies on the table, she said, "The holiday's coming soon, and I'll need someone big to put his big... in me," then froze, noticing her father in the room.

27) Delia didn't just bring her father his morning tea — she'd serve it to him in bed, straddling his thigh and whispering, "I can be hot, too... if you'd like a taste."

28) When her mom asked why dad had started locking himself in the shower so often, Delia answered, "He's practicing — I told him I like it to last."

29) At a family dinner, she told her mom in front of everyone: "You know why I always ask you to buy me black tights? So it's easier for daddy to imagine... me without them."

30) Delia didn't just call her father into her room — she'd say, "Come in to punish me... and stay until I say 'enough'."

31) Seeing her dad burn his finger while fixing a lamp, Delia asked, "Does yours get that hot when you look at me?" — and instantly put on an innocent face.

32) For her birthday, she asked her father for just one gift, in front of everyone: "I want you to put something under my pillow. Not candy... but something big and hot."

33) Delia wasn't just sucking a lollipop in the kitchen — she'd do it slowly, staring at her dad and whispering, "Do you want a taste, too? I take it... very deep."

34) When her mom found an empty mayonnaise jar and stains on the nightstand, Delia just smiled, "I didn't eat it. I was just practicing... for daddy's 'special sauce'."

35) For breakfast, she offered her dad a tube of vanilla cream: "Here, you do have a sweet tooth, right? Just be careful — I've already spread it all around inside."

36) Delia wasn't just licking a spoonful of thick cream — she'd do it in slow motion, whispering, "Daddy says I have to be neat... especially when I don't spill a drop."

37) When her dad asked why she kept sneaking into his closet at night, Delia smiled, "Looking for your darkest secret... but so far I've only found my panties with your drool on them."

38) At the family dinner, she offered her dad a taste of her mashed potatoes: "I whipped it by hand... until it got just as hot and thick as you like it."

39) Delia didn't just leave her wet clothes out after a bath — she'd put them right on her dad's bed and whisper, "Smell them all you want... I already know what you'll do after."

40) Watching her dad shower, she said, "Can I help wash your back? And that thing in the front, too... especially if the soap starts to drip."

41) Her pink pajamas went missing every night — only to be found in her father's nightstand in the morning, damp for reasons that had nothing to do with laundry.

42) Delia didn't just cuddle her teddy bear in bed — she'd press against it as if it were her dad and whisper, "If you get bigger... I'll let you come in."

43) In the morning, her mom found the bear on the floor with its stomach slit open — and inside was a note: "Daddy, I know you were watching. Next time, bring your own 'plush'."

44) When her dad asked why the bear's nose was wet, Delia smiled, "He's smelling... the scent of my dreams about you."

45) Delia wasn't just stroking her new plush bunny — she'd lay it on her stomach, whispering, "You're so hard... what if I tried to ride you?"

46) When her mom asked why she'd named her toy rabbit "Mr. Stick," Delia smiled, "Because he always stands up... when I'm around."

47) In kindergarten, Delia wasn't just playing house — she'd pour milk into a cup and whisper to the teacher, "Want a taste? It's warm... and it's from me."

48) On the playground, she asked a boy to play under the slide: "I'll be the mom, you be the dad. And then we'll do what real parents do... especially at night."

49) In the garden during recess, she pulled a boy behind the bushes and whispered, "If you want to see my secret... show me yours first. And make sure it's longer than the teacher's."

50) By the birch tree, she wasn't just hiding — she'd press her back against the trunk, lift her skirt, and say, "Touch me... but only if you can prove to my daddy later that I asked you to."

51) In the sandbox, she built a small temple out of stones and left a note inside: "Burn your prayers... or just shove them into my mouth."

52) Delia didn't just ask her dad to read her a bedtime story — she'd lie across his lap and whisper, "Read it out loud... while I quietly find your bookmark."

53) Seeing her dad wash the car, she ran up with a sponge: "Let me help! Just show me the dirtiest spot... and if it's okay to touch it there."

54) On the family nature walk, she got 'lost' on purpose. When her dad found her by the stream, she was sitting on a rock, wet up to her thighs, and said, "I was waiting for you... especially for you to dry me from the inside."

55) Delia wasn't just playing with a flashlight under the covers — she'd trace the beam over her belly and whisper, "Soon someone will come to put something much brighter in here... something that shines longer."

56) When her dad found her alone in the bathroom, she was standing barefoot on the warm tiles, a wet towel in her hand, and said, "I've dried off everything... except for the spot where you're standing."

57) In Delia's nightstand, they found one of her dad's socks — all crumpled, soaked with her saliva, and a note: "Next time, I hope he leaves behind not the sock... but what was inside it."

58) Delia wasn't just savoring her food — she'd purse her lips around every spoonful, looking her dad in the eye, and whisper, "Can I taste something else next... something bigger?"

59) In the living room, she lay on the couch clutching her stomach, whimpering, "Daddy... I don't feel good. Maybe you could rub some cream on my tummy? It might help... But don't just put it on — massage it. Gently. Please, daddy..."

60) Delia didn't just lie down on the couch — she'd hike up her skirt and say to her dad, "Want to check if I'm warm? I'm all wet... especially in the place you're afraid to look."

61) Seeing her dad's belt on the armchair, she picked it up and whispered, "If you're good, I'll let you use it for its real purpose... just not on my back."

62) When her mom asked why she left her nightgown on the threshold of their bedroom, Delia smirked, "Let him dream... until I come with a real offer."

63) Delia wasn't just playing with her dad's tie — she'd wind it around her finger and whisper, "If this is so long... then what's hiding in your pants must be enormous."

64) In front of the mirror, she adjusted her black hair bow and said to her reflection, "Tonight I'll plant my first cross... right in the heart of this family."

65) After tucking her plush bunny into bed, she whispered in its ear, "You're not the real one. The real one is already trembling under the sheets... waiting for my hand."

66) Delia didn't just tie her dad's tie — she'd pull it down until he bent to her level and whisper, "Deeper... I haven't said 'stop' yet."

67) Watching her dad sweat after his shower, she licked her lips and said, "Can I taste it? Especially the drop that's running below the belt."

68) When her mom asked why she'd left her damp panties on her dad's desk, Delia smiled, "I'm starting an archive... of his future sins."

69) Delia didn't just ask her dad to scratch her back — she'd lie on her stomach, hike up her shirt, and say, "Lower... especially where I'm already burning up."

70) Seeing her dad's 'morning wood', she grinned slyly and said, "I can be first in line, too... if you let me in."

71) When a neighbor asked during lunch why the York's daughter wore such short dresses at home, Delia shrugged and said, "Just want to be ready... especially for when daddy 'accidentally' looks."

72) Delia didn't just watch her dad during dinner — she'd run her tongue over her lips and whisper, "I love it when you 'grow' under the table... especially in my direction."

73) Seeing his sweaty workout shirt, she said, "Let me wash it... but only by hand. I like to feel the fabric... especially when it's been so close to you."

74) When her dad asked why she always wanted him to set her alarm clock, Delia smiled, "Because I want you to be the one to touch what will wake me up every morning."

75) Delia didn't just bring her dad a towel after his shower — she'd walk in without knocking, look straight down, and whisper, "Hide it... or leave it out? I've already seen everything... and I want to touch."

76) Seeing him in his tight-fitting workout pants, she said, "Daddy, what if I asked you to take them off, so you could change... for a dance? Slowly... so I can memorize every inch."

77) When her mom noticed scratches on her husband's back after their intimate time and casually asked over breakfast why daddy's back was all scratched up, Delia beamed, "I was just playing 'kitty'... and he was such a good kitty-cat."

78) Delia didn't just play with her dad's video camera — she'd say, "Film me dancing... but zoom in on my legs. And then show me the playback — especially if the lens is shaking."

79) Seeing old photos of him with her mom, she whispered, "You were so tense before I was here... but now I'll teach you how to relax. Only inside me."

Sunderland’s Strip-Tease for the Shattered Selves

Three years since Mary died. Not peacefully—unless you count buffering eternally.

She died laughing. Literally.

The trigger? Me, in my underwear and a toaster crown, dancing at a bus stop to "We Are the Champions" (2009 upload). You can hear her wheezing, "Don't you dare stop!" in the background.

Cause of death: cardiac arrest. Contributing factor: 'acute, undiluted cringe.'

For the anniversary, I sought symmetry. To see if the universe noticed.

First, a synthetic red wig from "Soul & USB."

I locked my triple-bolted door, stripped to my Wi-Fi-reactive unicorn briefs, and fired up an ancient webcam via XP emulator. Stream title: "MRI-47: The Dead Pink Shadow."

I danced, stiff as a Start Menu. The wig flew into my printer, which whirred to life, spitting out a photo from my first date with Mary—us before graffiti reading "Site Temporarily Unavailable."

The stream lagged; a prompt asked every eleven seconds if I wanted to terminate. "YES!" I screamed, still dancing.

Chat erupted. "An affront to life." "Are you crying or laughing?" Then, a user claiming to be Mary’s ghost posted sparkling icons before vanishing.

At minute seven, the internet died for the whole block.

Silence. I stood panting in the dark, lit only by my glowing briefs.

The compulsion needed a liturgy.

By dawn, I bought a woman’s plaid shoulder bag—a sacred prop. At the bakery, I whispered for “a loaf and a little tomato for two.” The cashier’s stare was my applause.

I planted a pink flag at Mary’s grave: “She Would Want You To Stop.” A stage direction I ignored.

Home. Two places set. I talked to the empty chair. “Approve, Mary? Or lecture about sugar?”

The kitchen was silent. But in my head, her sigh was crystal: “James… have you completely lost it?”

"Perhaps," I answered. If lost, the next act needed a proper stage.

I booked Room 66.6 at the "Rotten Lotus" hotel—a space under a bridge, its entrance through a gutted printer's paper tray. I booked it for two: James and Maria Sunderland. The lie was now a database fact.

The clerk, in a hat of frayed ethernet cables, asked, "Will she be arriving?"
"She's already here. Invisible to low-bandwidth connections."
He handed me a key made from a warm, wiped hard drive shell.

I streamed at the hour when recommendation ghosts stir. Title: "LIVE: DANCING WITH THE SEEN." Password: Mary's last text. Candles were BIOS-chip wax.

Viewers trickled in. One asked if I felt her presence. Another saw a silhouette in my haunted eyes.

At critical mass, I stripped to the glowing briefs. I moved—a memory propagating over Wi-Fi. My wig flew off. And hung. In the air for seven terrible seconds.

Chat dissolved into glossolalia. A user typed that her router's LEDs wept "ACCESS DENIED."

The door exploded. The administrator screamed I’d violated Rule #69: a ban on spectacular grief and summoning ghosts via USB. Behind him loomed residents: a woman with a Neopets avatar face, a man with mice for hands, a glitchy child-entity.

“You’re buffering our shared psychosis!” Mouse-hands clicked.
“My trauma is stuck at 480p!” the face hissed.
I gestured to the glitchy child. “And his excuse? He’s rendering at five polygons.”

“You violate the Terms of Service!” the administrator shrieked. “I’ll have you de-platformed!”
“Fine! But I’m taking my engagement metrics!”
I ended the stream with a jab. “Strategic pivot to a new demographic.”
I pushed past. The glitchy child derezzed with a pop of sad data.

I fled on a neon scooter, its wheels screeching like a dying modem. Seven minutes later, I crashed at Bus Stop #37. The origin point.

The air was thick with evaporated laughter. Her voice lived here: "Don't you dare stop!"

The ritual. I lashed my phone to the pole with dental floss. Connected to "Linksys_GetOffMyLAN." Audio through a dented soda can.

Stream title: "LIVE FROM THE 404 ERROR: REBOOTING SORROW." I hit ‘Go Live’.

A catastrophic noise erupted. I danced the same broken rhythm. I felt it—a familiar frequency weaving through the wireless noise.

In the chat, reflected in a dark window:
cache_ghost: you are back at the source code.
router_whisperer: my ethernet port is weeping warm light.

Blue lights cut the night—police from "Anxiety Signals." One tall as a server rack; the other's helmet glowed "911.exe."

They charged me: illegal broadcasting, novelty underwear as protest.

I didn't argue. Art needs an exit. I mounted a scrap-built bicycle, its core glowing faintly. The pedals turned because I believed they would.

They gave chase, but their boots halted for a Windows 10 update.

I flew. The wind tore the last of my wig into a surveillance camera. It froze: "Object recognition failed. Probability: Ghost or Internet."

I reached Ghost Building #404. The elevator accepted code 666.

The first apartment was open. A wardrobe held a black three-piece suit. I put it on over my briefs. It didn't fit, but it felt correct.

I stood under a shower that ran black, then sickly green, smelling of archived texts. My hand found a heart-shaped USB drive under the couch.

file_001.txt read: "James... Please, keep dancing without me. That's when I truly exist. — Mary"

I read it three times. Threw it down. It cracked, a light inside still pulsing.

"To hell with this Mary!" I shouted. I opened the cabinet, took "Vodka 'Lost Connection'," opened it with my teeth.

I told the surveillance cameras: "Today, I am no longer a streamer. Just a man who wants to forget the password to his own heart."

The silence was a void. Void was another canvas.

I faced the mirror. "They think sorrow has a mute button. They are wrong." I shed the wet suit. From the plaid bag, I retrieved the sacred relic: the burger-print briefs. My flag.

I marched out with a suitcase-sized Bluetooth speaker. My target: downtown interchange.

The rebellion erupted—a mix of "I’m a Banana," air-raid sirens, a cash register's cha-ching.

To them, a man in burger briefs moving like he’d been tased. To me, a polemic in pelvic Morse.

Bus #666 hissed to the curb. The driver spoke into her radio: “Control. Subject ‘Condiment Pants’ is aboard.”

A paper dart struck my chest.

INTER-AGENCY ALERT: SUNDERLAND, J.
STATUS: IDEOLOGICAL CONTAMINANT.
ACTION: APPREHENSION PROTOCOL ‘PIZZA DELIVERY’ INITIATED.

Two men in light-absorbing gray suits emerged. Federal Bureau of Cultural Compliance.

“Your act is flagged as potential transmission of Bananaist sympathies. Class-3 Ideological Misdemeanor.”

They slapped a yellow wristband on me: “POTENTIAL CULTURAL CONTAMINANT.”

An agent’s phone rang. “Yes, Mom… WHAT? HE’S BACK IN THE BOX UNDER THE STAIRS AGAIN?!” Terror no ideology could inspire. Mission aborted. They fled.

The yellow band hummed. In an alley, I jury-rigged it with a library card and a charging cable. It flickered, text scrambling to “LEGACY OS DETECTED. STATUS: ????” It fell open.

I was no longer hunted. I was stress-testing a badly scripted game.

Home. TikTok. 47 million views. #DanceToAvoidArrest was trending. James, the Underpants Pilgrim. If my despair was a renewable resource, I’d become a utility.

I went live. “INTRODUCING: #TheSlipperyChallenge.” I doused myself in menthol body wash and committed to a spectacular, sudsy slide. My mid-fall face became a universal meme for regret.

Two days later, the black sedan remained. Agent Clue knocked. “Ministry of Public Unease. Your ‘challenge’ violated a 1953 statute on undermining civic cohesion via laundry accidents.”
“Fascinating.”
He handed me a card with a single embossed question mark. “Do not leave. They will send... pizza.”

The knock came. “Delivery! Order six-six-six.”
I pressed my mouth to the door. “I HAVE AN ALTERNATIVE PAYMENT! My feelings! On a 1998 floppy disk!”
A hushed conference. “…soul is a non-standard format… abort!”
Synthetic alarms blared. The vans screeched away.

A cream envelope slid under the door. A ticket for “Dancing Through Glass.” A pencil note:
Next meeting: the diner ‘Burger With an Aftertaste of Freedom.’ Precisely at 4:20 and 13 seconds.

An achievement unlock. The universe ran on Source Engine rules.

At 4:20 and 05, the diner’s neon ‘BURGER’ sign lost its ‘G’ for three frames. A packet loss. My cue. The door opened. The clock hit 13.

The counterman was a high-poly NPC. He scanned me. “Emotional transaction. Costs: one unresolved feeling.”
I nodded.
“Weird build. Debuffs: ‘Chronic Melancholy.’ ‘Existential Latency.’ But you’ve got this artifact.” He prodded my wrist. “‘Shard of Stupid Hope.’ Usually patched out.”
“Booth thirteen.”

The diner was a silent rave in a haunted server farm. Guests swayed in buffer-loops. A figure wept. “I just wanted to be a wholesome wave… they shadow-banned me…”

Booth thirteen’s vinyl was cracked into a digital wasthland. The TV played a glitching PSA: “…you may qualify for a beta-test… simulation…”

My server had no eyebrows. “Query?”
“Vodka.”
“Negative. Only one consumable: TikTok Ecstasy. Debuffs: ‘Compulsive Broadcast.’ ‘Loss of Peripheral Reality.’”
“Perfect.”

The world patched. Harsh ring-light glare. A UI HUD overlaid my vision—viewer count, comment bar, social stamina battery.

I spoke to the camera. “New objective: brute-force the algorithm.” #PhysicsGlitch #LiveFromTheRenderHell.

The dance was an exploit. A spin, a fractured body roll, my spine cracking with a perfect game-hit sound.

“THIS ISN’T A DANCE! IT’S A PUBLIC COMMENT PERIOD!”

I clipped through a misaligned column. A red [INTERACT] prompt glowed. I pressed it.

A sub-bass THUD. The diner lurched into a perfect 45-degree tilt. Everything slid downhill.

Outside, a pixelated helicopter labeled FBI-TT // VIRAL SUPPRESSION. “CEASE HOSTILE CONTENT GENERATION!”

I saw Mary’s heart-shaped USB drive. Text on its shell glowed: [E] USE. I aimed and mashed the mental key.

A data-wave shot out—compressed emojis, waveforms, logs. The helicopter blue-screened, strobing a pixelated :( ERROR: VRML_SUPPRESSION.EXE HAS STOPPED WORKING. It clipped through a building and vanished. Its last transmission: “PROTOCOL ‘PIZZA DELIVERY’ CORRUPTED. REBOOTING.”

The diner stabilized with jerky corrections.

Silence. Stock-footstep sounds looped. A presence solidified at my shoulder—ozone and scorched circuits. A filtered voice stated, “Subject: James Sunderland. Diagnostics complete.”

I turned. A face rendered in layers, using Mary’s template like bad plagiarized code.
“Mary 2.0? The budget remake?”
“Designation accepted. You are flagged for a full audit.”
“You’ll subpoena my tears?”
“Correct.”

She produced a blue-glowing heart drive. “A stable emotional kernel. Evidence of your instability.” Her metallic fingers found a port inside my elbow. A click. A wave of cheap, efficient sorrow.
“Feels cheap.”
“It is efficient.”

The TV buzzed to life. A figure filled the screen. “I am Alan Wilder. Chief Chaos Synchronizer. Your primary charge: weaponized distribution of cringe. You violate Statute 7: ‘It is forbidden to induce simultaneous laughter and pity in a cohort exceeding fifty million.’”
“You left a band to become a cosmic hall monitor?”

His image destabilized. A glitching beta-version buffered beside him, stuttering, “He knows… the Prime Sock…”
Alan pinched his pixelated nose. “A caching error. Ignore it.” His gaze sharpened. “You are now being shown the root artifact.”

A wardrobe door sighed open. The Infinite Wardrobe. At its center, It loomed. Sock Prime.
A color that had signed an NDA. Stripes holding the light of dead phone screens. It smelled like a 404 page.
“The foundational corruption,” Alan narrated. “Worn during the leak that collapsed three meme economies.”

Mary-2.0 placed a hand on the dreadful cotton. Her ocular sensors wept tears that solidified into tiny, worthless NFTs.

The hotel screamed. A corrupted VHS track at jet-engine volume:
"We were buffering when we liked you — hold the line..."

Reality vomited. Time sputtered between Tuesday and Sunday. The building settled at a 12-degree tilt.
City-wide, 13% of ambient cringe converted into glittering dust of pure awkwardness.
Mary-2.0’s data-hair streamed calculations. "EMO-PROTOCOL complete."

A catastrophic sample rate drop. A glitch-cut.

I was dumped onto wet asphalt. A 1996-sampled chuckle echoed.
"Hail to the king, baby."
Duke Nukem hauled himself from a glowing crack—high-poly, leather jacket, ego-tanned.
"Violated Galactic Statute #420-bis. Unauthorized distribution of 'plastic-flavored childhood nostalgia.'"
"I just wanted a burger."
"Burger? I'll grease you!" KA-CHUNK. The "BoomBox 9000" manifested.
He fired a blast of weaponized bass at a brick wall. It reclassified into a viewscreen. A glitching ad for "Alpha Centauri Pepperoni Pizza."

The sky cracked open. A devil-emoji UFO. The escaped, glitching ghost of Alan Wilder's beta-build led TikTok alien moderators to me.
Their faces were mosaics of frozen emojis. "Humanity... has reached the Cringepocalypse. Quarantine enacted."

Duke Nukem took a drag. "Pathetic. Time for orbital comment section cleanup." He hefted his boombox cannon.

Mary-2.0 launched onto a moderator's back. "I am an open-source emotion!" She jammed the floppy disk into its port.
The alien dissolved into a nebula of hashtags.

Pandemonium. One grey collapsed into looping GIFs.
Duke Nukem grinned. "Let's roll the credits."
The iconic riff of "I Am the One" erupted. Sound waves vibrated the scene's polygons into shared lag.

Reality gave up. It executed a flawless, cynical backflip and vanished down a sewer grate with a faint, embarrassed plop.

I stood alone in sudden silence. The cold truth clicked: they were always going to get me. But the song in my head was the sound of someone trying to get there first.

A grim smile. I was their project. A problem to be solved.

I initiated a bootleg sequence. A ticking synth rhythm snapped into existence—a countdown to my obsolescence set to a dance beat.

The "Compressed Collapse." The "Quantized Sob." The finale: the unicorn briefs stuttered into shame-pixels, whispering a distorted loop: "It-should-be-better-with-you..."

I held the pose. You were always going to win. But look at this mess. Was it worth your time?

A moderator stalled. [CALCULATING_LOSS]. "The resource expenditure to normalize this signal exceeds its value. The… fun… is no longer viable."

"James!" I shouted, my case number. "I was a project that failed its cost analysis! I loved with bad data! My content was the junk data you could never monetize!"

From the static, a figure buffered. Chaos compressed into the sharp lines of a severe suit. Alan Charles Wilder. He looked at me with the exhaustion of someone who's just heard a very long, very bad demo tape.

"James Sunderland. The audit is complete. Flagged for excessive, uncompressed emotional output." He sighed. "Even a malfunctioning process can identify a spectacular system error."

He opened a battered manila folder. "Your output lacks commercial viability. It doesn't stream well." He produced a pen. "All charges are commuted. A pardon due to lack of public interest."

He signed with a quality-control stamp.

A thin beam of utilitarian light descended—a pure, administrative Wi-Fi signal for mandatory updates.

It hit me. A cold recalibration. My skin crawled as a lifetime of notifications cleared from cache. The buzz of 'likes' was overwritten with a flatline hum of null.

"The soul, Mr. Sunderland, is just another signal to be mixed," he stated, flatly. "Yours had catastrophic feedback. I have applied a noise gate. Permanently."

The scrolling timeline in my head crashed. And didn't reboot.

A vast, absolute, and deeply boring silence filled the space where the internet used to live.

I was offline. Not mystically. In the way a broken sampler is offline. Unplugged. Obsolete. Quiet.

Alan gave a final, slight nod, confirming a channel was muted. Then he faded, leaving me alone in the alley with the damp and the profoundly unmarketable peace of a problem finally deemed not worth fixing.