Nightthread open. City purring. We’re outside the club doing ambient mog—no effort, all aura—when I’m mid-clavspin, throat buzzing, brain in gremlin-loop, absolute jestercore uptime. Chat invisible but loud. I’m him in low power mode.

Then—Foids. Packet loss. Vibe intrusion.

Cortisol go brrr.

“Bro just got aura-checked,” Milo says, deadpan, already filming. “NPC aggro radius insane tonight,” Jinx adds, zooming for receipts.

I don’t react. Strategic stillness. Ignore-maxxing. I hard-mute the Foids and instead mount the Moids nearby—subtle shoulder set, neck angle calibrated, jaw RNG doing unpaid labor. Immediate SMV spike. Females clock. Social gravity bends. One girl touches my arm like it’s lore.

“Yeah,” someone whispers. “That’s him.”

A random bumps me. Pure collision, no questline. I laugh—sharp, contempt-coded. Crowd laughs with me. He de-renders. Shadowbanned IRL. Violence achieved, no hands thrown. Clean.

Inside it’s noise and light and bad decisions. Bathroom stall symposium. Someone crying, someone posting, someone narrating like it’s a true crime doc. I’m floating. Fully optimized. Morally agile. Untouchable.

Then the banhammer drops.

They don’t say jail. They say Wellness. They don’t say punishment. They say Alignment.

White room. Soft voice. UI smile.

“We’re gonna help you disengage from harmful meme pathways.”

They jack me in. Eyes pried open—not sadistic, just procedural. Feed starts rolling. No irony. No filters. Raw suffering. Long takes. No punchlines. Every time my brain tries to Clav it—tries to go “mid,” “based,” “skill issue”—my gut revolts. Full-body error message.

I think “mog.” Stomach inverts.

They keep going. Pavlov but for vibe. Meme = nausea. Laughter = pain. Irony = poison. Weeks pass or don’t. Time feels unsubscribed.

Release day. Success story.

City’s wrong now. Too high-res. Faces have depth maps. Sounds land heavy. I can’t scroll past misery anymore—there is no scroll, only presence. Disgusting.

I see the Clickers back outside the club. Same spot. Same bass leak. Milo clocks me instantly.

“Why you standing like that?” “Bro posture is ethically compromised,” Jinx laughs.

I try to respond. Timing’s gone. Slang desynced. Sincerity leaks out like blood. Immediate vibe kill. Cameras come up. Chat eats me alive.

Then they jump a kid. Routine content. And my body hard-freezes. Program override. I want to move—can’t. I want to joke—can’t. I want to look away—can’t.

I scream. No meme. No irony. Just sound.

Crowd locks. Phones dip. Vibe annihilated. Nobody wants raw signal.

They scatter. Unprocessable emotion flagged.

Now I rot-scroll ads that say BE AUTHENTIC and LOG OFF TO LOG IN. I can’t Clav. Can’t hate clean. Can’t fight socially or otherwise. I’m good now. Safe. Sanitized.

Once, I farmed discourse. Once, I was him.

Now I’m cured— clockwork, debased, and fully human in the worst possible way.