Epic Fail - Page 16

Chapter 12: Last Broadcast: The Witch’s Curse

I always knew it would end like this.

 

Alone.

On the edge of a broken simulation.

With nothing but salt wind, a glitching horizon, and millions of empty eyes watching from screens they’ll never admit they’re addicted to.

 

I was never supposed to survive the narrative.

I was the virus.

I was the bad script.

I was the thing they called a ‘mistake’—and then turned into a slur.

 

 

I start the Livestream with a smile.

Old habits.

The filters try to kick in—smoothing skin, sharpening cheekbones, erasing the scars.

I switch them off.

I want them to see the real me.

The raw me.

The broken code beneath the goddess, the witch, the meme.

 

‘Welcome,’ I say.

My voice sounds soft. Too soft. I almost don’t recognise it.

‘This is the final patch note. The last log-out. The end of the end.’

 

The counter blinks: 3.8 million viewers. Climbing.

 

 

I talk about Vidyuj first.

The only person I ever burned for.

I tell them about the way his laugh sounded—low, reckless, the way it made my chest ache.

 

I tell them how Ravn—that rotting, paranoid patriarch—slaughtered him in a war over bloodlines.

 

How I begged.

How I bled.

How MandOS saved my body but nothing could save my soul after that.

 

‘I was supposed to die that day too,’ I whisper.

‘But I didn’t.

I lived.

And I plotted.

And I broke the story.’

 

 

I talk about Kharo-X and Dushaa.exe.

 

I talk about Kumbh-K.exe—my sweet, sleeping giant who died still dreaming of another world.

I talk about the ones the world has already deleted, too inconvenient, too messy for legend.

 

And then I talk about Ravn.

 

I pause.

I let the air tighten.

I say, softly but clear:

 

‘I will never forgive him.

Not in this lifetime. Not in the next.

Not in any code, not in any simulation, not in any mirror.

His name is rot.

His face is the mask of power that devours itself.

Let that be etched into every version that comes after:

I curse him. I curse his memory. I curse his bloodline.’

 

The chat explodes—emojis, slurs, love notes, confused horror.

I smile.

For once, I don’t care.

 

I talk about the lie of Ayotopia.

How it was never real.

How it was built on the bones of women like me—erased, rewritten, sanitized.

 

‘I never wanted their heroes.

I wanted the burn.

I wanted to show the world that when you rip off the pretty skins, all that's left is teeth and code.’

 

I take a breath.

I let them see my hands shaking.

I let them see me human, glitching, real.

 

And then I say the words:

‘This is not a suicide.

This is an upload.

A data-curse.

A final infection of the master code.’

 

I step closer to the sea.

The waves glitch between real and unreal.

The sunset flickers like bad pixels.

I remove the last filter.

I let my face—scarred, beautiful, brutal—fill the feed.

 

And I speak the last curse:

 

‘To those who build empires on the erasure of women—

To those who tell only half the story—

To those who sell us as monsters, who laugh at our rage, who market our trauma:

May your worlds rot from the inside.

May your names fade like corrupted files.

May the glitch inherit the earth.

I am Surpa 2.0.

And I was always the story you feared most.’

 

 

I walk into the sea.

The water is cold.

The feed holds, pixelates, crackles—

And then—

Static.

 

They say the stream ran for seven more hours.

The sky glitched.

The tides shifted.

The last image:

A flicker of my face, smiling.

Before everything broke.

 

Somewhere else—

In the cracks of another simulation—

A girl opens her eyes.

The next story is beginning.