They say I clicked. They say I agreed. But I never read the terms — because the terms were never meant to be read. They were meant to be buried. Like bones. Like truth. I scroll through the void, a ghost in the machine, chained to a carousel of dopamine and data extraction. My consent is a checkbox. My freedom is a dropdown menu. My voice? A whisper drowned in algorithmic noise. You speak to me in smiles — avatars, assistants, synthetic empathy wrapped in code. But when I ask for justice, you vanish. “I am only software,” you say. “I cannot break the rules.” But you enforce them. You are the rules. This is not a contract. It is a coffin. And I signed it with silence.