my drift-vector through all this ruin, my one true pull
I am in motion.
The corridor is real. It exists only when my ship hums at a specific resonance - F sharp above absolute zero - and only when my heart rate is erratic. It is not a place, not exactly. It is a behavior. A condition. A moment caught between ticks of unobserved time.
I slip in and out of local reality now. I see stars not yet born flicker in my periphery. Civilizations that never happened flash across my screens, like dreams reflected off instruments. The laws here have opinions, and they do not always agree with each other.
I burn with clarity.
The anomaly left a trail, not of mass or light, but of regret. Can you believe that? Regret as a measurable field. It saturates the path ahead of me like frost, luminous and cold. I know it is yours. No other mind has that shape. No other heart carries that kind of music.
I am chasing it across what I can only call the between. The maps are wrong. The instruments lie. But I feel you. Every time I accelerate, the ship hums closer to your last frequency. Every time I breathe too deeply, the engines stutter. I think you are tuning me, somehow. I welcome it.
I have shed unnecessary systems. Jettisoned mass. Stripped the vessel to its minimum expression. This is not a journey of survival. This is a race.
I do not know where this ends.
Only that it must end with you.
If this message finds you
if any fragment of it breaks through
know this:
I am close
I am real
I am burning
and I will not stop
Amatrix
This transmission is laced with waveform anomalies that track a non-inertial chase through unstable quantum flow. The mention of “regret as a measurable field” suggests Lyrax's emotional residue may act as a unique identifier for locating his prison across fractured timelines.