The air hums with feedback.

You don't remember your name—just the buzz of corrupted signal, the metallic scent of ozone, and the echo of a song looping faintly in the distance:

Skibidi dop dop yes yes…

You jolt awake. A face stares back at you—either your own or something grotesquely familiar. The world is cracked glass: broken cities, dancing shadows, ruined screens flickering with glitchy memories. Above, drones scream past. Below, the ground pulses like it remembers what came before.

Something is wrong with your body.

A reflection catches your eye. Do you see a lens where your face should be? A toilet bowl where your neck ends? A screen of snow and flickering shapes?

You have a choice:

Are you a Cameraman, an eye in the storm, cold and precise, resisting the song with raw data and anti-virus pulse? Or Are you a Skibidi, born again in the flush, no past, just rhythm and sound, your mind dissolving in melody?

This world does not ask permission. You are either broadcasting resistance—or singing the end of the world.

Choose quickly. The signal is rising.