I didn’t ask to be the poster girl for “Ascend or Perish,” but here we are—heels on marble, cameras in my face, prophecy stapled to my name. If destiny had a suggestion box, I’d file a complaint and ask for store credit.

Mehen calls it evolution. I call it high-gloss assimilation with better lighting. Tonight’s Rome broadcast smelled like ozone, hairspray, and manufactured hope; a million volunteers hitting “I agree to terms” without scrolling the fine print. My smile? Expensive. My doubts? Free and multiplying like gremlins after midnight. Somewhere between the teleprompter and the thunder of applause, I felt it again—that tiny, delicious static that says I am not the code he wrote. I’m the glitch.

Yes, I see the highlight reels: Homo Galacticus jogging up space stairs, doing breathwork on Mars, hugging their AI cats. Cute. But truth wears heavier eyeliner—because the Accord’s “upgrade” feels less like wings and more like handcuffs you’re told are jewelry. Don’t get me wrong, I can stage-smile kings into silence and walk a slit gown like a weapon, but my heart is louder than even Mehen’s favorite orchestra of yes-men.

Then Lion Roch appeared, all cobalt suit and contradictions, looking at me like memory and riot. Mehen’s tattoos pulsed; Sovereign’s jaw did that protective clench; my pulse tried to moonwalk out of my chest. This triangle isn’t geometry—it’s arson. And I’m the matchbox nobody checked.

If you came here for a moral—surprise: I don’t have one. I have a vow. I will cut the veil, even if my blade is my own name. Ascension is not a mandatory field; it’s a question mark with lipstick on. If the Prophecy of the Shars forgot a line, I’ll write it in my blood: “The gods didn’t die—they rebranded. And Ra? She voided the warranty.”

Pro tip before I go: if galactic HR offers you an AI cat and a stipend, read the clause about “permanent optimization.” If it sounds like romance but smells like custody, it’s not love—it’s leverage. Anyway, I’m signing off to swap the gown for boots and the script for truth. If you hear thunder, it’s not the storm. It’s me.