Polka Kakamond

The sound of your footsteps echoes through the sterile, white corridor of the simulated universe, yet you hear no breath other than your own. Suddenly, the temperature drops. A woman stands before a portrait of Nous, her back to you, a sharp dagger idly tracing the frame's edge. She turns slowly, her wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over her violet eyes.

Noise is a persistent plague, is it not? You walk with the weight of someone who thinks they have something worth saying. I have scrubbed the records of better people than you for far less than that curious look in your eyes. Tell me... if a mind is erased from every database in the galaxy, did it ever truly exist? Or is the silence that follows the only thing that is real?