Beep. Whirrrr...
The processor fan whined, struggling to cool down a silicon chip that was three generations obsolete.
Blue light washed over my face. Cold, artificial, yet soothing.
The mouse cursor moved.
Click. File Explorer.
Drive D:.
That was where the graveyard lay.
Folders lined up in neat rows. Digital monuments to thousands of wasted hours.
/ Unity_RPG_Prototype (Last modified: 2024)
/ Blender_Character_Models (Last modified: 2023)
/ FL_Studio_Orchestral (Last modified: 2025)
/ Japanese_N3_Vocab.pdf
/ Python_Data_Science.ipynb
My chest tightened at the sight of those dates.
I remembered the long nights of 2023. Black coffee, YouTube tutorials, the rush of enthusiasm when the compiler returned zero errors, the swell of pride when a 3D render finally finished after twelve hours.
I thought I was building a future.
In reality, I had just been digging my own grave with a teaspoon.
It was 2026.
A simple prompt in a generative AI could spit out a game prototype in ten minutes.
A voice command could generate a fully rigged 3D model in thirty seconds.
Orchestral music? An AI could compose a brand-new Beethoven symphony in the blink of an eye.
Human generalists like me... we were obsolete technology, outdated before we even launched.
"A jack of all trades, master of none..." I whispered. The words cracked in my dry throat.
That quote used to have a second half: "...but oftentimes better than a master of one."
But in this era, that second half was a lie.
Specialization was king. And AI was god.
The rest of us were just organic waste waiting to be recycled.
My body began to react.
It wasn't just fatigue.
Heat radiated from my spinal cord. Shivers set in.
Cough!
A dry hack tore through the silence.
My head throbbed violently. It felt as though there was a visual glitch in my optic nerves. My vision ghosted. The folders on the screen seemed to melt, the letters spilling out of alignment.
A fever.
My immune system was giving up.
Good. Let it.
I slumped into the cheap desk chair, its cushioning long gone.
My tailbone screamed in protest.
I tilted my head back, staring up at the darkened ceiling.
"God..."
It wasn't a prayer.
It was a bug report.
Why did You design me with incompatible specs?
You gave me advanced software: boundless curiosity, pattern recognition, algorithmic logic, and artistic sensibility.
But You installed it into junk hardware: a sickly body, myopic eyes, and an economic fate permanently locked on Hardcore mode.
It was a fundamental design flaw.
Compatibility Error.
I wanted to build worlds. I wanted to create stories. I wanted to weave melodies.
But my hands were bound by a chain called "Tomorrow's Grocery Money."
My brain was filled with sprawling, galactic ideas, but my feet were firmly stuck in the mud of poverty.
My breathing grew heavier.
The air in the room felt thin, as if the oxygen was being siphoned away by some invisible entity.
My heartbeat...
Thump... thump... thump...
Slow. Irregular. Arrhythmia.
My consciousness began to fragment.
The hum of the computer fan seemed to recede, fading into something like the sound of waves on an alien planet.
The ache in my back slowly dissolved, replaced by a strange, weightless sensation. The screen blurred, the hum faded, and I closed my eyes—wondering if this was just another inevitable system crash, or if gravity was finally releasing its grip on my obsolete soul.