Page 17 of 404: Consent Not Found
Installing.
Chapter 8
Kyle
The bar crawled forward, agonisingly slow. My hand hovered over the Cancel Download button. It could be anything—viruses, worms, spyware, ransomware.
Or worse.
I didn’t move. What was there to protect? I had nothing left to lose.
Not even my dignity.
The screen flickered softly in the dark as the percentage ticked up. 42%… 47%… 52%.
I stared, unblinking, as if I could will it to finish faster—or crash entirely and save me from myself.
But it didn’t.
It kept going.
I went back to the forum to distract myself. Masterbaytor71’s profile was bare—no avatar, no flair, just a list of cryptic threads.
One stood out.
Why cydolls are vital in today’s landscape.
I clicked.
[Posted 1 month ago | Masterbaytor71]
They’re not just fucktoys. They’re infrastructure.
You think it’s about sex? It’s not. It’s about loneliness. Touch-deprivation. Emotional detachment in a world built to isolate you. Cydolls don’t judge. Don’t leave. Don’t withhold.
In a collapsing society, loyalty is currency—and no one’s more loyal than the one you built yourself.
Human connection is a pay-to-play system now. Swipe right if your income is six figures. Swipe left if you want genuine affection.
Women don’t want love. They want lifestyle.
You think you’re unattractive? Nah. You’re just not profitable.
The truth hurts—but so does waking up alone with a balance under 1k and a heavy heart as empty as your bank account.
When the lines blur between need and love, between code and connection, don’t ask what’s wrong with you.
Ask what they took from you that made this feel right.
I rubbed my jaw, feeling the week’s worth of growth as I contemplated the words. He wasn’t wrong. All my failed dates made me feel inadequate. I had no high-end techware, designer label clothing, or a series of chips embedded inside me. I didn’t dine in hover-restaurants or own a sleek company pod that screamed fuckable status. I’d paid for three dating apps in the last year—every match either ghosted or made it clear I wasn’t premium material.
And I’d tried. I really had. Cleaned up. Smiled like I had a future. Took them to mid-range diners and asked all the right questions. But the moment they found out I worked for Emotive, I could see it in their eyes—like they were already swiping someone else in their heads.
The post wasn’t cruel. It was a mirror.
You’re just not profitable.
Yeah. That line punched harder than it should’ve.
