A wet halo clings to every light, turning the street into a fever dream. The fixer waits inside his car, eyes on the reflection of thighs along the glass. He’s not built for salvation, only for surviving the rot.

Agnes shows up soaked from the rain, voice brittle, eyes too wide to lie. She says they’ve started losing faces, names, the line between dream and body. He laughs it off until a girl starts moaning mid-sentence, pupils blown wide. From that night, he can’t tell if he’s sick or blessed.

This isn’t a game you play; it’s a body you enter and let consume you. You live inside different hosts, each one writhing with their own version of need. AI-rendered flesh gleams with heat, every drop of sweat calculated into art. It doesn’t cut away; it holds, it watches, it learns how you react.

She confesses sins that sound like masturbation instructions. He fucks like someone trying to forget the world still exists. Their boundaries blur until you forget whose voice you’re hearing.

Masturbation feels like surveillance, like touching yourself through someone else’s memory. Every moan lands on a beat, each swallow timed to your pulse. Billboards pulse like veins; streetlights hum names of the consumed.

You don’t decide when to come or when to stop. It’s purity inverted, holiness fucked raw. Nobody’s clean; everybody’s complicit.

Agnes doesn’t pray anymore; she just exhales. It’s filth that tells the truth better than any confession. It crawls through your choices, even when you have none.

It’s a kinetic novel that fucks with your sense of self until you can’t look away.