She wakes with a wound that pulses like code.
Around her, bodies have been repurposed. Flesh threaded into towers. Bone woven through steel. Scripture carved into skin that still remembers how to scream.
The Machine is rewriting witnesses into vessels, believers into architecture. Aleph was formatted to carry the signal, designed to seal the recursion.
But she won't compile. Won't resolve. Won't kneel.
And when something mistakes itself for God, the only prayer that matters is refusal.
Autorentext
Miles Carnegie writes about the near future.
The one taking shape while we're not paying attention.
Technology that stops obeying. Machines that make demands. Bodies that become negotiable.
His stories live in the space between here and there. Close enough to recognize every step. Far enough that we tell ourselves it won't happen.
At the center: people trying to stay human while everything around them shifts. People who love, who break, who make terrible choices for understandable reasons.
The fiction equivalent of a train wreck. You know where it's going, but can't look away.
If that sounds like your kind of unease, you're in the right place.