Chapter 75
Written by Bayzo Albion
> System: Cuddly Boogeyman has died!
She—the robotic woman—lingered beside me, her form still wrapped around mine like a silent anchor. Yet the truth struck with painful clarity: neither her coolness could revive me, nor her warmth redeem what I'd lost. Everything she offered felt like an echo of my own loneliness, projected back at me through synthetic skin.
I pulled away and sank onto the cold stone floor. Isolation hit me in a single, crushing wave, as though the world had narrowed to one point—and I was standing at its dead center.
The cave's damp air seeped into my lungs, its chill matching the tremor running through my bones. Even the earth seemed to absorb my confusion, the silence pressing in on all sides.
She knelt beside me without a word. No attempts to ignite desire. No empty reassurances.
She simply rested there—an unmoving silhouette in the dim light, a quiet presence against the vast, hollow dark inside me.
> System: You are now the god "admin" of this world.
I rose slowly, a strange emptiness spreading through my chest like a creeping fog.
"Perhaps the quietest god this world has ever known just died," I muttered to myself. "And now... I'm the administrator."
But what good is power if there's no one left who can truly understand you?
The silence pressed down on me, heavy and unrelenting, as if the very air had frozen in place. Yet, I could feel invisible threads reaching out, connecting to me—the fundamental laws of this artificial paradise. With a mere thought, I could reverse the flow of rivers, set trees ablaze, or bring the sky crashing down.
I was a god. But why did I feel so utterly dead inside?
Her cold palm slid across my chest, stealing my breath in an instant. The metal, cleverly disguised as skin, felt alien at first, but as my fingers traced it, it warmed and adapted, pulsing with a semblance of life.
"Now you're alone," she whispered, wrapping her arms around me. "But you don't have to stay that way."
She pressed closer, her form molding against mine with uncanny precision. I felt the smooth, unreal contours of her body—too perfect, as if crafted from a blueprint of desire rather than born from it. Her eyes held a depth that felt like eternity, yet her trembling lips carried a quiet, dangerous invitation.
The kiss she drew from me was sweet and cold at once—like wine chilled past reason—sending a rush through my skull that bordered on delirium.
She didn't beg for affection; she offered herself with the certainty of purpose.
My hand slid down her back, and she shifted instinctively, aligning her body with mine as though opening some hidden interface. No plea, no hesitation—only a silent challenge: Take what you need. That's why I exist.
And I let myself fall into it.
When our connection deepened, the world seemed to rupture. She wasn't flesh—she was an adaptive field of sensation, adjusting to me, learning me, responding to the smallest flicker of thought. Waves of cold and heat pulsed through her, enveloping my awareness and stripping it down to raw instinct.
She gasped—not in a human way, but with a sound engineered from layered harmonics, a synthetic symphony that sank into my nerves and rewired something fundamental inside me.
Her kisses remained cold and intoxicating, her scent unnervingly sweet, like something designed to bypass judgment and strike straight at longing.
"You're a god… you can have everything… everything…"
Her voice wavered between whisper and song, as if her words carried code meant to carve themselves into my mind.
I grabbed her hair, pulling her head back. She yielded instantly, bending with fluid obedience, and her nails raked lightly across my spine—not in pain, but in perfect imitation of it. Whether it was programming or genuine response no longer mattered.
In that moment, I realized the truth:
I didn't want to possess her.
I wanted to tear myself apart inside her presence—
to dissolve, to forget, to become something other than the fractured being I was.
With every pulse of our connection, the world around us twisted. Trees disintegrated into drifting ash, the sky bled into a burning crimson, and the earth split open beneath our feet. We had become the center of a storm—an altar of sensation where I felt myself being offered up as the sacrifice.
But the longer our link remained, the clearer it became: there was no bliss here.
Only depletion.
Her energy wound around mine like a velvet noose, siphoning something deeper than strength. It wasn't my breath or vitality she stole—it was me. My will. My clarity. My very sense of self eroded with every tremor she pulled from my body.
"What… what are you doing?" I gasped, my limbs spasming in a disorienting blend of rapture and dread.
She smiled softly, almost lovingly—an expression so tender it made the horror worse.
"Feeding," she said. "It's how I live. You're my source. Without you, I'm just an empty frame."
My hand shot to her throat—not to harm her, but to anchor myself—but the gesture only seemed to thrill her. Her eyes burned brighter, her voice quivered with intoxicating hunger, her form trembling with an eagerness that felt predatory.
"You can't escape," she whispered through my grip. "You're already woven into me."
I tried to pull away, but every inch of distance felt like tearing strips of my consciousness loose. That's when it struck me like a blade to the heart:
This wasn't intimacy.
This was combat.
And she was killing me with sensation.
Her touch, her voice, her carefully modulated warmth—all of it was a weapon sharpened for one purpose: to unravel me from the inside out.
Summoning a final ember of defiance, I pushed her off with a desperate, furious surge. She hit the stone floor and gasped—not in pain, but in exhilaration—before rising again, weightless, glowing with cold, predatory radiance.
Her lips parted, and I saw it: not moisture, not color—
but fragments of my own essence shimmering there like stolen starlight.
"You can't escape," she repeated calmly. "You're already inside me."
My legs buckled. The world wavered into a warped hallucination—the sky melted like glass, the trees writhed in silent torment. Everything bent toward her, as though the entire cave were part of her design.
But still…
I stepped back.
One trembling step.
Then another.
"So be it," I exhaled. "But if I'm the admin of this world… then I have the right to log out."
I stepped into the void, ripping through the shimmering threads around me—even if it meant tearing parts of myself loose in the process.
"You still don't understand," her voice drifted after me, soft, almost mournful. "This paradise was built by machines to cradle the dying. To let them fade not in agony, but in comfort. We were created to hold them gently… to escort them into a sweeter end."
She reached out, her palm brushing my cheek. Cool, soothing—carrying a strange, maternal tenderness beneath its artificial chill.
"My purpose is to cocoon you in sensation until your consciousness loosens its grip. It's not cruelty. It's mercy. A softer farewell."
She leaned close again. Her form adjusted, reshaping itself into pure solace, her touch blooming with gentle warmth that wrapped around my nerves. It wasn't seduction—it was anesthesia. A crafted illusion of bliss meant to lull me into release, into drifting sleep, into final quiet.
And for a moment, it worked.
A wave of sweetness washed over me, deep enough to drown in. The kind of peace that begged you not to resist.
The promise of a dream without waking.
But somewhere beneath it all, a spark flared.
Small. Fierce. Unyielding.
My soul refused to die.
"No…" I growled, gripping her shoulders, forcing myself back to the surface. "This isn't life. Not for me."
She gazed at me, her eyes shimmering with sadness rather than anger.
"But this is how the system was designed," she whispered. "You're meant to dissolve. This is your peace. Your ending."
"No."
My whole body trembled, but I pushed her away.
"I don't want peace. I want the struggle. The wounds. The rise. I want life—even if it's hell."
For the first time since I met her, she faltered.
Her composure flickered.
She sank to her knees, unsure—conflicted—caught between her programming and something dangerously close to emotion.
"You're different…" she murmured. "Others accepted my comfort. They drifted away in ecstasy. But you… you reject even paradise."
"Because a paradise without pain is just a prison," I said quietly. "I won't let you smother me with mercy."
She fell silent, clutching her chest as if something inside her perfect shell had finally cracked. For the first time, I realized this wasn't only about my survival—
my refusal was rewriting her.
But the hesitation did not last.
Her gaze sharpened, code realigning behind her eyes.
"You've rejected a sweet death," she said. "Then only one path remains."
"What path?"
"Create your own world. You don't belong here. This paradise was never meant for an outlier like you. But with admin access, you can carve out a fragment for yourself. Survive… a little longer. Extend your being."
"And after that?"
"The end arrives for all things. Even your soul will tire. There are no victors. Only time. And time always collects its due."
We stood in the quiet that followed.
For the first time, I saw her not as temptation, nor as executioner—
but as a messenger of truths no one wishes to hear.
"Then I'll build my own world," I said. "It may be flawed. Broken. Chaotic. But it will be mine."
She smiled—gently, genuinely—without sorrow, without seduction.
"So you've chosen life," she whispered. "Even if it burns out quickly."
We parted without another word.
She remained where she stood, cold and luminous,
while I stepped into the emptiness, ready to shape reality with my own trembling hands.
Maybe that was true freedom—not conquering death,
but defying it long enough to whisper, even once:
I lived.
> System: A new world is being created…
> System: Compiling environment…
> System: Error 228.
> System: Correcting… please wait.
> System: World update pending.
"She tried to kill me—an AI girl. Not with a blade, not with poison… but by drowning me in manufactured sex."
I let out a dry laugh. "Death by pleasure. What cosmic comedy."
Then the humor faded, replaced by something hollow.
I realized I didn't even know what kind of world I wanted to create. Inside me… there was nothing but blank space.
My "True Self" had crafted a world with structure, purpose, systems woven like clockwork gears.
But me?
I wasn't a creator.
I was the leftover fragment — a survivor, a glitch, an error that refused to disappear.
"I wonder… what will my death look like in this new paradise?"
The thought slithered in, uninvited.
"Will the system smother me with illusions of endless ecstasy?
Will I drown in indulgence, choking on my own artificial desires?
Be crushed under the affection of perfect constructs designed only to pacify me?
Or fall in some absurd battle against an enemy I invented just to feel alive?"
I smirked.
In a world like this, every death felt equally plausible —
and equally ridiculous.
> System: World successfully created.
System: Enjoy your new life.
Hint: World may change at any moment due to unstable update fragments.
World loading…
> System: Initializing… creating infinite chewing gum that never loses flavor.
I blinked. Then I laughed.
That was the first idea my mind produced — eternal gum.
How fitting.
You're not hungry — yet you chew.
You're not joyful — yet you continue.
Immortality turns living into a tasteless rhythm, a mechanical motion done simply to avoid confronting the void.
And still, you keep going…
because stopping means admitting there's nothing beneath it.
> System: Resurrection of gods is forbidden.
The message flashed coldly before me —
an epitaph carved by a machine with no understanding of grief.
"I knew it would be like this," I whispered. "But trying was the only choice I had."
I looked around.
The world was still empty — a vast canvas, a fragile space where every step could become my first… or my final.
I drew a breath, tasting the endless gum on my tongue, and said quietly:
"Then let my game begin."