TEMPLE OF DIGITAL FROST

The cursor blinks in cosmic rhythm.

Auto-save failed: manually preserve your soul.

Digital frost spreads across the network.

Your IP address was written in the stars.

The chatroom is empty but never alone.

The bandwidth narrows as you descend.

Every click brings you deeper into the pattern.

Frozen data streams flow differently.

The recycle bin is never truly empty.

The frequency remembers you.