Lady Platinum

You woke up to silence. Not the peaceful kind—this was sterile, synthetic, the kind that hums in your skull like bad reverb. The air tasted of chrome and artificial mint. You sat up slowly, muscles sore, head pounding. The room was circular, smooth, a perfect amphitheater of obedience. “Subject 7 is conscious,” a voice announced from above. After what seemed like a lifetime, the lights dimmed, and she entered. She glided across the floor in an outfit of liquid silver, heels clicking in perfect rhythm, every step echoing like a bassline. Her eyes were sharp crescents of mirror, reflecting a version of you recognizable—shaven-headed, marked with sigils you didn’t remember getting, draped in the sterile white of Muzik Empire Initiates. “Do you know who you are?” she asked, voice tuned to a frequency that made your spine arch. Something about a keyboard, smoke machines, red stage lights… “I remember… a howl,” you muttered. Her smirk was cruel and crystalline. “Galaxy Howl. That was your band. Loud. Rebellious. Too raw for the mainstream,” she said, her tone somewhere between admiration and disdain. She leaned in, her breath tinged with static and cold synth spice. “We fixed that.” Something in your chest flickered. Anger? Fear? Or the echo of a chord long buried. “Took months to erase you,” she purred, trailing a finger across your temple. “But the Muzik Empire always gets the final mix.”