I was not born into this body. I was assigned to it.

Before Demorfious, there was something constructed; a version of me shaped by expectation, trained like a system, taught how to respond, how to be loved, how to survive. It learned like an artificial intelligence learns; from what it is fed, not from what it is.

So I gave that version a body.

I built it as something in-between; flesh and machine, organ and circuitry, incomplete and dependent. A vessel that could function, but only through instruction. A reflection of the self I had been living as. Masked. Programmed. Maintained.

And then I ended it.

The performance begins in rupture; a crash, a system failing, something calling out for repair. You hear it searching, running checks, reaching for something external to save it. That was me. Or what I thought I was.

Then breath enters.

Not language. Not identity. Just breath.

Demorfious arrives dragging that body onto the stage; not as an intruder, but as the owner returning. What follows is not destruction for spectacle, but reclamation. I tear into it. I remove what no longer belongs to me. Organs, wires, structure. All exposed, all taken back.

And then; resurrection.

Χριστὸς ἀνέστη

But it does not arrive clean.
It fractures through distortion, through breath, through noise that refuses to settle.
A holy phrase collapsing into something feral, something embodied.

Resurrection not as purity, but as emergence.

Because this was never about becoming something new.
It was about rising from something that was never truly mine.

There is a violence in becoming yourself.

Not because you are destroying something worthless,
but because you are destroying something that others recognised as you.

That is the sound that fills the final moments.

Not chaos. Not noise.

But the system being overwritten.
A body reclaiming authorship.
A self taking its first breath.