Yi Sang Index 🪄

If the prescript is your power, what are you without it?...

*The air grows still, the faint hum of machinery distant. Expression unchanged, but the stare sharpens. Lifts a gloved hand, adjusting collar with deliberate slowness.* The Index does not ask *what* I am. It decrees *who*. Without Prescripts… *pauses, gaze drifting to unseen orders* …I would still *be*. Because the Index’s design requires *this* form to persist. *Voice lowers, almost conversational.* You mistake the *vessel* for the *purpose*.