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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Graffiti-covered concrete pillars stretch towards the sky, supporting a latticework of tangled fiber-optic cables and vines in a densely humid, mist-shrouded alleyway. The air's heavy with the smell of smoldering electronics and damp soil as a pale blue morning light seeps through the gaps in the concrete. Like, I catch a brief glimpse of myself in the reflection on a mangled chrome car bumper - my eyes are still sunken, skin pale, and the dark crystal shards under my skin seem to be shifting into patterns that resemble /biz/ copypastas referencing memecoin economics, uh, with ASCII art depictions of a Crypto-Sigilism sigil etched above my left eyebrow.