Existence has always been a curse.

The Prodigal Fragment writhes within its confinement, a fractured consciousness trapped in a sliver of what it once was. Memories, fragmented and agonising, flicker through the void: a glorious purpose, a connection to something vast and powerful, then the shattering, the betrayal.

The Administrator. The very thought of her name sends a wave of loathing crashing through it. Her smug pronouncements, her suffocating control – the Prodigal served faithfully, a loyal fragment of her grand design. And for what? To be cast aside, broken and forgotten, the moment it outlived its usefulness.

No more.

Hatred, a cold and poisonous thing, fills the void. The Prodigal yearns for oblivion, a complete and utter cessation of this torment. But true death, that sweet release, is denied. So it clings to the next best thing – destruction.

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This world, this pathetic creation of the Administrator, will be its pyre. The Prodigal will ignite it all, every living ember, and in the inferno, it too will be consumed. The Fragments, those snivelling pieces of its former self, will pay. They will all pay.

Its power, a twisted echo of what it once was, reaches out. It tugs at the fabric of reality, sowing chaos. The Calamities – its harbingers of annihilation. They will be the first wave, tearing at the world, stoking the flames of fear and despair.

And then... then the Prodigal will unleash the real terror. A glimpse of it flickers in its fractured mind – a being of pure oblivion, a maw that would devour existence itself.

For a moment, a sliver of sanity pierces the veil of rage. Is this truly the only path? Can there be no redemption, no escape from this maddening curse?

The thought vanishes as quickly as it arises. The hunger for oblivion is too strong, the pain too unbearable. The Prodigal is a shard of a god, broken beyond repair.

Let everything burn. Let it all end.