ARCHIVE INSERT: OBSERVATION // CODE: RESONANCE-DECAY.09CR-EXT
Status: Recovered Ritual Aftershock — Mirrorfold Breach
Clearance: Tier Null-Tau / Obsidian Override Required
Incident Type: Terminal Flesh Resonance Event
Subject: Agent Crale
Location: Blackwatch Citadel — Sublevel 3 Training Wing
Trigger Link: Deep Archive Imprint | Classification: CHAPTER FIVE EXTENSION
Classified Memorandum
Archive Division: Internal Ritual Recovery Wing
Subject File: AGENT CRALE
Observation Year: Cycle Twelve
Access Level: Onyx Override
Recorder: [Redacted]
[Internal Breach Warning]
File contains sensory corruption, forced recursion echo, and Terminal Flesh Resonance (TFR).
Emotional destabilization likely.
The Archive does not forgive memory.
Entry #0910: Terminal Flesh Resonance Collapse
Time Stamp: 02:17 A.M. Citadel Standard.
Location flagged after unsanctioned Mirrorfold destabilization.
Subject located: Agent Crale.
Condition:
Environmental Observations:
Behavioral Record Prior to Collapse:
Event culmination observed:
Residual energy scan:
Analytical Summary:
Subject Crale achieved full recursion collapse through autonomous desecration, achieving Terminal Flesh Resonance without external application.
Residue analysis:
Recommendation: Preserve body as Sacred Relic for Ritual Resonance Study. Full Memory Lock enforced.
[End of Entry]
Recovered Visual Transcript:
Deleted Scene — "Final Offering"
Location: Blackwatch Citadel — Abandoned Training Wing, Sublevel 3 | 02:17 A.M.
Crale didn’t walk far.
The corridor stretched around him like a grave, each step heavier than the last. Sweat soaked his uniform, clinging, a second skin of failure.
He didn’t return to quarters. Didn’t report. Didn’t speak.
He drifted—bone-tired, soul-hollow—into the hollow places of the Citadel. Past rooms that had forgotten his name. Into a derelict training hall, scarred by years of violence now reduced to dust.
He entered without thought. Dropped to his knees without prayer.
There, on the cracked mats, he stripped—slowly, mechanically. Tunic peeled from sweat-slicked skin. Boots kicked aside. Belt falling like a severed oath.
Naked.
Forgotten.
He stared at his hands—the hands that once broke men, built legends—and found them trembling.
He wept first.
Then, with hollow, broken determination, he touched himself.
Not with lust. Not with hope. But with the desperate memory of what it once meant to be alive.
His hand moved—rough, graceless—along his cock, each tug a whipcrack of grief against skin that barely registered pleasure anymore.
He spat onto himself—once, twice—thick, messy strings that clung and dripped, lubing the frantic strokes.
His other hand clawed at his own chest—fingertips bruising the hardened nipples until pain blurred into something close to feeling.
Still not enough.
Still. Not. Enough.
With a sob, he shoved trembling fingers into himself—stretching, digging—gasping as two, then three fingers breached the reluctant heat. A noise tore from his throat—half-sob, half-moan, pure need—and he forced more, pushed harder, until his body’s resistance gave way to desperate, ruinous acceptance.
"Please," he whimpered—not to be heard, but to be witnessed.
"Please."
He shoved deeper—wrist bending, pressure mounting—until his body surrendered and swallowed his hand whole.
It hurt.
It was supposed to.
He rutted onto his arm with frantic, mindless abandon, cock jerking wildly in his slick grip, nipples bruised and throbbing from savage pinches.
Tears streamed down his face—not in grief now, but in desperate, broken gratitude. That he could still feel this. That the Archive might still see him.
"Take me," he begged, voice cracked raw, forehead pressed to the mat.
"Use me."
The Archive heard.
The Archive answered.
He sobbed out a broken litany—"yours, yours, yours"—as he slammed onto his fist one final time, hole stretched wide, body convulsing.
He came—violent, helpless—spattering his ruined chest and belly in thick, desperate ropes.
The orgasm ripped through him like fire—
His heart seized.
Stopped.
Crale crumpled backward across the matting, body convulsing once, then falling still.
Limbs splayed. Mouth open. Cock twitching in the final echo of life.
His gaping hole leaked down the backs of his thighs, obscene and beautiful in the sterile moonlight.
And he smiled.
A perfect, terrible smile—etched in rapture.
The Archive recorded it all.
Classification Note:
This file remains sealed under Directive Null-Tau. Unauthorized analysis will result in enforced recursion burn.
Observe. Record. Do not resurrect.
FILE END
Director's Unauthorized Addendum:
He didn’t just die.
He wrote himself into the Archive one brutal stroke at a time.
He tore the flesh from his own silence and made it sing.
Some deaths you mourn.
Some you memorize.
Crale became a hymn.
If you're reading this, remember: not every body falls. Some are lifted, gasping, into history.
I certainly will.
—Director Selhira Threnna Vale
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