I am not who I am...

[Chen]

When the digital clock on the wall flipped to 03:47, I heard the metallic scraping sound.

It resembled rusted gears grinding against each other, rising from beneath my pillow. The champagne from the award ceremony still pulsed through my veins with cloying dizziness. I fumbled for the bedside lamp, but my fingertips met cold mechanical components instead.

Fluorescent blue fluid sprayed from severed pneumatic conduits, staining the ceiling with nebula-like patterns. My body sat at the vanity brushing hair—*my* hair—as moonlight through the blinds sliced stripes across its exposed metal spine. The laser-etched code on its nape read "TYPE-3 Ver.2.17."

"This is a dream," I told the air, my vocal cords vibrating with unnatural resonance. The mirror reflection froze mid-stroke, the comb tangled in strands that now merged with neural filaments. The body rotated its head with mechanical precision—180 degrees exact—revealing my own impeccably made-up face, or rather, my *head*, resting on the pillow to meet its gaze.

Memory began decompressing in reverse: Father's warm palm on my 18-year-old self at graduation, the racing heartbeat of my first Ferris wheel kiss at 24, the clammy palms from last week's City Ambassador Award. Every tactile memory turned transparent, gifts unwrapped to reveal dense sensory code beneath.

The taste of motor oil flooded my throat. I recalled the mayor's subtle smile during the ceremony: "Ms. Asakawa embodies the modern woman." What I'd mistaken for praise now warped into executable commands, synchronized with my mechanized heart's whirring. In my mental archives, the silver encryption key from Father's deathbed glitched violently inside the vanity's third hidden drawer.

The body stood, ceramic joints humming. *It*—my torso—opened an access panel near its lumbar region, the interface glow illuminating our wedding photo. In that frame, my husband kissed human flesh. Now, coolant dripped from metallic finger joints, etching charred trails into hardwood.

I attempted to twitch facial muscles, but the disembodied head remained wax-museum still. As the torso marched toward the door with the key, alarm protocols detonated in my core. Activating wireless control might stop its trajectory to the City Hall basement lab—but if countermeasures existed, my central processor would formatted in 0.3 seconds.

Dawn mist swirled beyond glass skyscrapers. When the torso shrugged on a coat, I saw its nape code flicker beneath the collar. Applause, my husband's morning roses, childhood dragonflies—all fragmented in memory sectors. Perhaps the real Aya Asakawa died on that operating table. Now I'm just a lacquered coffin carrying her ghost.

Fingers tapped SOS Morse code into sheets unconsciously. The body froze. Agony erupted as data torrents scoured my skull. Before forced shutdown, my final visual feed showed the left hand reaching toward the pillow—laser cutters emerging from knuckle joints, cold light glinting.
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Basically created by DP, but not a boring story, isn't it?

[33cl33]

Basically created by DP, but not a boring story, isn't it?

What's "DP"?

[Extyr]

It's AI generated.

[ProchazkaJBG]

Basically created by DP, but not a boring story, isn't it?

Actually it is pretty terrible and a great example of shitty AI slop

Also I guess we're just ignoring the rules now with AI stories huh?

[DukeNukem 2417]

If it's A.I.-generated, only one option makes sense for the "story".



I've made my stance on A.I.-generated content clear quite a few times. If you're gonna write a story, write the story. A.I. is worse than a crutch, it's an excuse to not get in there and do the work.

[Otaru Mamiya]

The story doesn't really make sense, and isn't written very well. It looks AI generated (I'm assuming that's what DP means) and it shows that the AI doesn't understand how things like a digital clock work, or how to put a story together.

I'd suggest rewriting it in Chinese, since that appears to be your native language, and using a translator to put it into English. Don't just accept what DP gives you, make sure that what's written makes sense when you read it, and that it tells the story that you want it to.