Taylor smashed the monitors. Burned the data. But the fractal pulsed now beneath their skin, a second heartbeat. In their final journal entry, they wrote:

  Carl was wrong. The Watcher isn’t a god. It’s a fossil. A scar left by entropy. It doesn’t hate us. It forgets.

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  We are not small. We are unwritten.

  They’ll call this madness. But I’ve seen the cradle of existence—it is empty. The Watcher’s truth is freedom: dance in the dark. No one is watching.

  No one ever was.