Two figures stand.
No sound but the hissing fluorescent light overhead—a naked buzz, paranoid and stuttering.
They are hairless. Skinhead humans, stripped of time and taxonomy. One breathes in slow revolutions; the other doesn’t breathe at all.
The woman stands with a cock like a chrome antenna, catching frequencies from deep-state radio, coded in lust and lament. The man has a womb-shaped mouth, twitching with the memory of something born too soon or not at all.
They are naked. They are perfect. They are errors in the code.
They watch you—not with eyes, but with memory.
Your own.
You try to speak, but the words disintegrate into maggots before they leave your tongue. Language is dead here. Gender never existed. Sex is a weapon, a prayer, a parasite.
You realize too late: you’ve always been standing here.
They’ve always been watching.
The room watches.
You are seen.
And the only rule in the Static Room is this:
Everything is true and none of it happened.
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