Той, хто біжить по лезу II

It smells like burning and electricity - as if someone had opened a cyberpunk wound and sent a current through the veins. Everything shimmers with neon, the lines sound like system commands, but inside this metal, there's a pulse. Mechanical, stubborn, human. Somewhere between the lines is the fatigue from the endless "so what then?" and the desire to prove: I'm alive, even though according to my passport, I'm not human. The sound booms like the march of rebels from the future who never understood whether the world had ended or simply stalled. And amidst this roar, there's a strange calm: if it's no longer possible to be human, then it's time to at least feel what it's like to be alive.