T
The sky was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel—wait, no. That was the old world. Here, the sky was a perfect, unyielding #000000.
Yggdrasil wasn't a tree. It was a root directory. And we had just found the permissions to write to it.
The data stream flowed like sap, digital and cold. I reached out, my fingers brushing against the haptic interface of reality. "Connection established," the system whispered, not in audio, but directly into the auditory cortex.
This is where the art begins. Not in the chaos of creation, but in the logic of structure. The bricks of reality, stacking one by one.