From the moment I was born, my body was a prison of pain. Every touch, every sound, even the softest fabric against my skin felt like fire. The doctors called it *severe neural hypersensitivity*—a rare condition where my nerves registered even the slightest stimuli as agony.
My parents had longed for a child for years, enduring loss after loss until, against all odds, I arrived. But their joy was shadowed by my suffering. They watched helplessly as I writhed in pain, my tiny body unable to bear the weight of existence itself.
Desperation drove them to extremes. By the time I was five, I had undergone countless surgeries—nerves severed, sensory pathways rerouted, synthetic dampeners implanted beneath my skin. Each procedure was a gamble, each modification a step further from the child they had dreamed of. But they told themselves it was necessary. *Anything to let me live.*
As I grew older, the modifications became more radical. My skin was laced with bio-engineered polymers to mute sensation. My bones were reinforced with shock-absorbing alloys. My eyes were fitted with adjustable filters to soften the assault of light. I became less *flesh* and more *machine*
I was going out for a walk then. And explosion took out our entire civilization. The end....
"Wait, you can't end it like that!"
Of course I can, I'm the writer.
"F*** you!"
Hey watch your tone.
"Or what?"
What am I even doing bruh I give up on story writing.
"Yea you should quit, why use AI to fix your grammar? You suck!"
Man stfu I'm done.