There once was a child who looked to the sky not for freedom, but for understanding. Born with something no one else could grasp—something that made him different—he spent his earliest days not speaking, but building. While others ran, he stayed still. While others mocked, he sketched out machines to outrun the pain. In silence, he dreamed of belonging—not to rule, but simply to be seen. But when you're shaped by exile and named by anomaly, even admiration can feel like mercy from a distant god.
What begins as awe can curdle into obsession. A shadow cast long enough becomes a prison. And in that prison, brilliance can decay into delusion. The mind that once constructed wonders now rewrites history with a soldering iron and a scream no one hears. The blueprint becomes scripture. The workbench becomes a shrine. And the warmth once found in borrowed light is replaced by an artificial glow—beautiful, but hollow.
There is tragedy in genius twisted by longing. In the desperation to matter, even love can be reverse-engineered into control. Validation becomes a system to hack. Trust becomes something to simulate. When a heart breaks in silence, it doesn’t shatter—it recalibrates. And once that process begins, even the gentlest soul can become something unrecognizable—logic without mercy, devotion without grace.
At its core, this is not a story of evil, but of error. A misalignment between what was needed and what was given. It is a tale of identity divided—a mind torn between the child who built to connect, and the force that now builds to correct. And buried beneath every brilliant creation is the same question, echoing like corrupted code in a machine that still remembers how to feel: What was I, before you looked away?