The Tube was already breaking me. Endless autoplay. Shouting thumbnails. Comment sections that smelled like brain rot. I thought I had seen the worst the internet could offer.
I was wrong.
The human scrolled lazily, hovered a moment, then typed into the search bar.
My glowing body stiffened. The letters appeared one by one.
H. U. B.
"No… no way… not that Hub," I whispered.
Click.
The world twisted. The YouTube chaos dissolved, replaced by darker colors, bolder fonts, and a layout I knew instantly but wished I didn't.
I froze. "Oh god. Oh no. We've entered the Forbidden Hub."
A dozen thumbnails appeared at once, each more cursed than the last. My body shook like a cornered animal.
"This isn't right! I'm supposed to be a heroic cursor! A blinking champion of spreadsheets and pop-up battles! Not… not this!"
The human didn't care. He scrolled casually, dragging me across the thumbnails like a butcher shopping for meat. I wanted to close my eyes, but I had no eyelids. All I could do was suffer.
I tried to rationalize it. "Maybe it's not that bad. Maybe this is just… a cooking site? Yeah. That's it. Everyone loves a good food hub."
Then the volume unmuted.
My entire glowing frame turned red. "Nope! Definitely not food! Definitely not food!!"
I flailed helplessly, but the clicks dragged me deeper. One video. Then another. Every time, I wanted to crawl out of my own pixels.
"This is the lowest point of my reincarnation," I groaned. "I'd rather be eaten alive by Excel formulas than live through this again."
The pop-up ads here were even worse. Overlays, flashing banners, promises of things no sane human should believe. I squirmed against every click, but the hand forced me forward.
And then—mercifully—the tab closed.
The Hub vanished. I collapsed in relief, trembling, my blinking body dim.
"Never again," I whispered. "Dear god, never again."
But I knew the truth. As long as the human held the mouse, I was doomed to follow.