Minichan

Got slotted into this off-grid ROK-Black-Site Med-Bay buried beneath Busan’s derelict Shinsegae data-towers— zero paper trail, just biometric handshakes and neural-auth hand-waves. chemo-engineer got these flickering retinal-HUD contacts, muttering about my “suboptimal glial-scar-to-synapse ratio” before jamming a Desomorphine-D7 cocktail straight into my carotid port. Called it "purge” on the streets—real name’s Desomorphine-7R-Neuroflux, laced with graphene-wrapped endorphin-mimetics and CRISPR-edited opioid-receptor agonists. Felt like my spine turned into a live fiber-optics cable dipped in liquid-static—every vertebra humming at 120Hz while my amygdala got soft-deleted by some corpo endogenous bliss-bomb. Then the meat started sloughing off! nyet like rot—more like scheduled deprecation. Skin peeled away in biodegradable nanoweave sheets, muscles auto-unintegrated into amino-acid slurry for the neo-myomer spools weaving through my femurs,, this while riding this improbable opioid-wavespace where my subjective-chronoqualia stretched into fractalized micro-epochs—saw my childhood pup rendered in voxel-memory, heard KBS World Radio bleeding through the walls as encrypted theta-bursts. decode. DECODE~ Woke up twelve subjective-eternities later with titanium-brachial conduits where my biceps used to be, taste of copper and regret still stuck in what’s left of my tongue, and this whisper in my auditory cortex: “Welcome to Phase-Three neosapiens mindbrain-integration, associate.” involuntary cumming followed. Total surrender, completely clicked into position.

(Edited 21 seconds later.)

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