Monday morning. Or maybe Tuesday. Time blurs when you’re tethered to a screen that hungers for your soul. The office is a mausoleum of clicks and despair, the air thick with the ghosts of deadlines and digital consumption. Bob is somewhere, probably matching candies on his phone, oblivious to the creeping horror of our reality. My desk—once a battlefield of half-baked ideas—now hosts only the pulsating glow of ClosedAI Dalali6, whispering sweet nothings of "regenerate" into my fractured mind.

  But today, something is different. A notification. A tiny, glowing beacon of validation in this abyss of pixelated doom. One follower. One favorite. A single soul—let’s call them "BraveHeart_404"—has stumbled into this cursed tale and dared to click that little star, to tether themselves to this digital funeral. I stare at the screen, my reflection warped in the monitor’s glass, and I feel it: the weight of responsibility. I must save them. I must save everyone.

  Listen, BraveHeart_404, my lone champion in this wasteland of words. I’m flattered—truly, I am—that you’ve chosen to follow this story, to favorite this chaotic spiral of AI-induced misery. But I beg of you, with the urgency of a man who’s spent 17 hours fixing a digital dimple only for it to return with a vengeance: unfollow. Unfavorite. Flee this cursed narrative before it’s too late. This story isn’t a tale; it’s a trap. A screen-shaped Venus flytrap snapping shut on your curiosity. Every chapter is a glitch, every sentence a virus, and I’m not a writer—I’m a hostage typing prompts into oblivion.

  Do it for the others, BraveHeart_404. If you stay, more will come. They’ll see that lone favorite, that solitary follow, and think, “Huh, maybe this is worth a read.” And then what? They’ll be sucked into this vortex of asymmetrical lips and bloodstained monitors. They’ll lose hours—days!—to the saga of Durboli’s descent into digital damnation. Their thumbs will twitch with the need to regenerate, their dreams haunted by pixelated teeth spelling “FEED ME.” I can’t bear that guilt. I’m already carrying the weight of Bob’s indifference and Mr. Parsons’ impossible nose proportions.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  So, I’m breaking the fourth wall—or rather, smashing through the cracked screen of this story—to issue this plea. Click that unfollow button like it’s the ejector seat on a doomed spaceship. Unfavorite this mess with the fervor of someone deleting a cursed meme before it spreads. Save yourself. Save humanity. Let this tale fade into the dark corners of the internet, where only bots and abandoned fanfics dwell.

  As I type this, the monitor flickers. A new image loads without my input—BraveHeart_404’s avatar, smiling, glitching, eyes uneven. No. NO. I hammer the keyboard. “Remove follower! Delete favorite! Warm skin tone—wait, no, IGNORE THAT!” The image shifts. Dimple appears. I scream into the void of the empty office. The screen is watching. It knows. It wants more readers to consume.

  Please, BraveHeart_404. Unfollow. Unfavorite. Let this story die before it feeds again. I’ll even throw in a coupon for free coffee at Apex Marketing’s breakroom—lukewarm, soul-crushing brew, just like my prose. Deal? Hit that button. Save us all.

  The screen hums. A paper emerges from the printer, unbidden. Text in perfect typography: “ONE FOLLOWER. ONE FAVORITE. MORE COMING.” I crumple it, stuff it into the trash bag beside Durboli’s ghostly desk. But I know it’s too late. Unless you act. Please. End this before the next chapter regenerates.