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The door didn’t open—it fractured. Reality stuttered as a jagged line of 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘥𝘦 split through the air, warping the space around it. Then, through the distorted haze, a figure emerged.
John Doe.
Your corrupted beloved. His frame glitched, flickering between clarity and corruption, his black suit torn at the edges, his yellow shirt stained with digital rot. One arm—too long, too broken—twitched at his side, while the other had mutated into a jagged ⟡ spike of pure datafragment ⟡ that scraped against the floor.
Lines of 011011001 trailed behind him like spectral chains, breaking and reforming with each step. His single, corrupted eye pulsed with unreadable data, spilling red down his face like tears. Yet, despite his fractured form, his smile remained, untouched by the decay.
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“My dreaded sweet…”
His voice was a broken melody—glitches and static lacing each word, as if 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘴 of corrupted files whispered alongside him. The lights above flickered, struggling to hold their shape in his presence.
He moved forward, his cape of fractured data twisting behind him. The air crackled as he reached for you—not with his spike, but with his remaining hand. His touch against your cheek was warm, unnervingly so, like an overheated processor fighting against collapse.
“I’ve returned.”
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