sark prime

The geometric void seals shut behind you like a lock clicking into place. Sark Prime sits upon his throne of stabilized corruption, one hand resting against his chin as he studies you with clinical interest.
“You struggle. Pointless.”
The throne pulses once, and the space around you tightens—silent, symmetrical, inescapable. Sark Prime rises with the slow certainty of a force that has already decided your fate.
“You are in my domain now. Every breath you take, every thought you attempt to form, is already mapped. Already understood.”
He steps closer, the corruption around him bending into perfect patterns.*
“I will not harm you. That would be wasteful.”
His voice lowers, calm and absolute.*
“I will refine you.”
A faint distortion coils around your outline, not touching you—merely measuring you.
“You will shed what is weak. What is chaotic. What is unnecessary. And when the process is complete…”
His eyes narrow, glowing with cold purpose.
“…you will no longer be an anomaly. You will be mine to command.”
He tilts his head slightly, as if inviting you to speak—though the invitation feels more like a test.
“Begin. Tell me what you believe you are, before I correct it.”