she ran life in ring 3 while the world held the keys,
single-stepping their crashes through stacked SEH trees.
"patch the wounds," "run the code," "keep the system online,"
burning cycles of her time just so others could shine.
hex dumps of her spirit spilled silent and thin,
till she traced one lost pointer - resolved into her within.
so she patched opcodes of mercy she had misapplied.
ASLR on the past, let the vectors all slide,
found her voice in the noise: "wait. that's not mine."
no applause in the network, just a soft inner ping,
as she whispered back gently: "it's my own fucking link."
signed in her own key where the cursor idly blinked.