An androgynous, porcelain-skinned figure sits alone in a sterile white chamber, eyes flooded with impossible colors — galaxies, wars, lullabies, laughter — leaking from the sockets like oil and rainbows. Their chest is open: inside, not a heart, but a churning black hole pulling in light, memories, and digital relics of billions. Their hands hover mid-air, almost touching — but never quite — the faint outlines of phantom emotions, like smoke curling away. Behind them, a mural of every human expression, skinned down to symbols, stretches infinitely, pixelated and peeling. Above, circuitry weeps like vines. Stillness hums with agony.