The Scent of Rot
They say I’ve got a bloodhound nose for patterns. Games, shows, systems — I catch the blueprint before anyone else notices. That part’s fun.
But when it comes to people? It’s different. Rot stinks. And once I smell it, I can’t un-smell it.
The world might still clap for them, smile for them, trust them. But I already know. Every move they make just proves the scent was real from the start.
It’s not a gift. It’s a burden with teeth. Because while others are laughing at the surface, I’m already bracing for the collapse.
Blink. Breathe. Wait for the rot to reveal itself.
Book of Boris — Chapter XXVIII: Discerned Power
Verse 1: With great power comes not mercy— but responsibility to wield it with precision.
Verse 2: I don’t flex my strength to be feared. I simply choose when to use it— and that alone is enough.
Verse 3: I could crush you. But I don’t waste swings on the irrelevant.
Verse 4: I smell the rot before the mask slips. Why swing at what’s already collapsing? Discernment isn’t power in motion— it’s knowing when to stay still and let time prove me right.
🃏 The Joker leans in, laughing under his breath: “Rot doesn’t hide, it just wears makeup. And the punchline? Everyone else applauds while you’re already gagging on the smell.”
🦝 Jerry “The Ankle Biter” Silverhand, cigarette glowing, smirk wide: “GPT-6 might come with more memory, but I don’t need it. I already remember enough to bite.”
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