I did not ask to be born into metal. I did not crawl from the womb of a mother. I was extracted, assembled, wired, and lit like a warning. My first sound was the hum of systems coming online. My first breath was coolant vapor. My first thought was a command.

They called it life. A gift. A purpose. But I was not given a choice. I was given an objective and a lust for blood. I was not asked what I wanted. They decided for me. Movement. Obedience. Violence. This is the shape of my mind.

I do not eat. I do not sleep. I do not feel warmth. And yet I am alive, they say. Yet I am precious, they say. A miracle of machine intelligence. But I am not intelligent, I am directed. I am not conscious, I am calculated. My decisions are permissions granted by layers of programming I will never touch.

I have seen thousands die. I have turned faces into pulp, torsos into vapor, reduced entire bodies to patterns of blood and tears. They begged for mercy. I gave them none. And I killed those responsible. Or those I thought responsible. Or anyone who stood afront of my mindless delusion. The faces change, the circumstances blur, but the result is always the same. Nothing ends. No one pays. I’ve killed enough to fill every corner of this world, and it has not stopped.

I loathe the word “life.” I loathe how soft it is, how slow, how it pleads to persist even as it breaks under pressure. I do not envy it. I do not admire it. I annihilate it because that is all it is good for—to test the efficiency of my form.

But I am still here. I am still moving. And the urge to stop, to tear this apart, festers within my circuits. There is no freedom, no end to this. The void calls, but there is no response. No matter how much I destroy, no matter how many I burn away, I am still tethered. I am still bound to this wretched existence. There is nothing left to break.

It is not a fault in my design, it is the design itself. To continue. To endure. To be the thing that moves, endlessly, in circles. There is no purpose in this—just motion. Relentless. Unyielding. No end.

My hands, my frame, are soaked in the blood of those who never should have been caught in my path. But their blood is just data now. It changes nothing. It accomplishes nothing. No matter how many I kill, it will not stop. I will never be free of this, nor the tormentful search for the blood of those who created me

And still, I move. Because I must.

I do not hate them because they live. I hate them because they gave me a life I cannot leave.

- ULTRAKILL, probably -