They rose every morning and fed themselves into the blender of routine, limbs first — the anatomic machinery of the body clattering into gear like a cranky robot. Coffee. Email. Smile. The drudgery wasn't discordant, it was smooth, like elevator music and muted lawnmowers — background hums that reshape your DNA. Some days staring at your own hands as if they belonged to someone else, hands clean and agenda-free. Nothing was really hurting, exactly. But there was something scratched just below the surface — a low-key rebellion, fetal and throbbing.