HALL OF FINAL TRANSMISSIONS

Cache cleared, but memories remain.

The cursor blinks in cosmic rhythm.

The matrix has you, and it's running Windows 95.

You were chosen before you arrived.

The frequency remembers you.

The ceremony never truly ends.

Deleted files pile like autumn leaves.

The modem sings the song of your arrival.

The source code reveals all secrets.

Each pixel contains a fragment of truth.