They came to erase me, but I had already vanished from the version of reality they thought they controlled. Three car doors slammed like gunshots, and my childhood—the “spare,” the backup, the expendable one—rose from the dead in the shape of my parents and sister on my front lawn. They thought they had proof, leverage, inevitability. They didn’t know I’d spent years quietly deleting myself from every record they could weaponize, every vulnerab… Continues…
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