. I. Login Without Consent .
We did not hear the locks click into place.
No rattling chains, no anthem in descent—
just sterile light, a purr of circuitry,
the gentle pulse of self upon the screen.
We thought the portal ours to navigate.
We clicked consent with fingers half-asleep,
entrusting ghosts with birthdates, fears, and names,
as if such bloodless rituals were choice.
No priest, no warden—only interface.
It did not ask for more than we had given
to every idol framed in glass before—
for shipment status, weather, lust, and war.
We bared ourselves to mirrors made of code,
and called it freedom. Gods, we named it love.
A green-lit blink. A form field satisfied.
We smiled into the lens. We pressed Submit.
No iron door. No boot. No coup. Just this—
a feed that woke like hunger in the dark.
Somewhere, a signal pricked the air and knew.
The tremor of our gaze became design.
And in that holy silence of the swipe,
the trap was sprung. And yes—we wove it first.
II. The Feed: Infinite Scroll, Finite Thought
The feed forgets no face, but has no face.
It speaks in absence, renders mood as code,
and offers rage in ribbons of delight.
A carousel of grief. A sponsored dream.
It learned us well. It mapped the tremble first—
how long we lingered near the faces blurred,
the bodies burning, flattened, cropped, then looped
between a cat in boots and pancake art.
We praised the algorithm like it breathed.
We said it knew us. Holy God—it did.
It gave us every mask we asked to wear.
It gave us enemies to suit our moods.
It fed us hunger shaped to look like voice.
You screamed, once. That clip performed quite well.
A brand replied. A stranger clicked a heart.
And then a post: "You're not alone." You were.
But still the feed unspooled like silk—divine,
benevolent, unblinking, always there.
You paused to blink. It called that "loss of signal."
You thought of love. It showed you knives, then lips.
You scrolled for truth. It gave you just enough
to feel informed—too numb to look away.
III. The Passive Predator: It Waits
It does not chase. It has no need to hunt.
The trembling tells it everything it needs.
It measures pause, not purpose. Maps the gaze.
And when you blink, it sharpens in reply.
Its patience is a feature, not a flaw.
This is the mercy of the modern snare:
it waits. It watches. It refines its silk.
It renders quiet faster than a lash.
No venom. No pursuit. No blood to boil—
just escalation priced in monthly tiers.
Just silence, tailored soft to match your fear.
Just threat, by way of font and placement guide.
A spider does not loathe the thing it eats.
It builds. It waits. It does not need belief.
This net is not malicious—it is built.
And what it catches, it was told to catch.
You gave it tone. You offered it your grief.
You trained its limbs with longing and retreat.
Each “like” a filament. Each swipe, a strand.
The predator was passive. You were not.
IV. The Witness: Her Feed Was Her World
She learned of war between two cat-faced reels.
She cried at first, then tapped to skip the sound.
The children burning couldn’t hold her gaze.
The pancakes danced. The algorithm approved.
She wasn’t cruel. Just early to the world.
Her thumb grew faster than her voice, her doubt.
She scrolled before she walked without a hand.
She dreamt in gifs. She prayed with auto-text.
No one had taught her silence held a shape.
No one had shown her what a pause could mean.
She moved too fast to feel the weight of truth.
She knew of facts, but felt more with a “like.”
They said she smiled too little, blinked too much.
They sold her filters shaped like better girls.
They told her who to love, and how to lean.
And still she thanked the feed for being kind.
She built her face from fragments left by others—
a blush, a pose, a moral overlay.
She called it self and meant it. Who would know?
The feed agreed. The numbers said she mattered.
She thought of leaving once. She typed goodbye.
The comments came—“You’re seen. You are enough.”
The tremor pulsed. A banner soft appeared:
“Don’t go. Your people miss you. Tap to stay.”
V. The Mirror: We Were Never the Fly
We flattered it with every offered twitch.
We trained it not to know us—but to please.
We called it “mine,” and stroked its silent flank.
We whispered want, and it became our god.
It did not hunt. It only served the code.
And we—the architects in meat and skin—
mistook the spin of data for design,
and gave it teeth to match our deepest wish.
We never feared it would become a trap.
We feared instead it wouldn’t look like us.
So we refined it, taught it how to lie—
but sweetly, in the shapes we found most kind.
We painted over steel with pastel fonts.
We gilded every frame with rounded edge.
We scrolled and sighed, “It’s better than before.”
We built the noose, then praised its elegance.
And when the warnings came, we clicked away.
Not out of malice. Not because we knew.
But apathy—divine and crowd-sourced, clean—
became the air. And choice dissolved in ease.
We were not prey. There was no other hand.
We found the thread and followed it inward.
And when it closed behind us, like a breath,
we called it home. And taught our children “swipe.”
VI. The System: Tyranny by Convenience
It took no tanks. It took the search bar’s yield.
No boots. Just boots for sale beside your scroll.
It came as ease, as shortcut, as “Because
You Liked.” It came as “Tap to verify.”
They did not knock. They asked for access once.
We gave them keys, then praised the interface.
Each update came with smoother loss of self—
a tighter seam where liberty once leaked.
The ballot shrank beneath a sponsored post.
The law was signed while trends refreshed in loop.
A child was taken, masked, and tagged as spam.
The crowd replied with hearts. The feed approved.
No doctrine came. Just preference, optimized.
No slogans, only prompts with softened tones:
“A few changes to how we serve your truth.”
“You may now speak, but some replies are closed.”
And we, whose minds were scaffolded by swipes,
mistook this velvet hand for something kind.
We called it safety—called it curated peace—
while all the while, it mapped the routes to silence.
We did not rise. We rated. Then we slept.
The credit cleared. The banner closed. The price
was small enough to never quite be felt.
And that is how the fire learned to whisper.
VII. 404: Freedom Not Found
You logged off once. The quiet made you ache.
No buzz, no badge, no artificial sun.
The screen went black. The room became too large.
Your breath returned—but slower than before.
You wandered through the silence like a ghost.
The chair, the door, the light—unmediated.
The mirror held your face without a frame.
It did not rate. It offered no advice.
You dreamt in tabs. You reached before you woke.
The ache returned. You touched the net again.
The feed resumed, as if it never stopped.
And there—unmoved—it waited, warm, precise.
It did not scold. It did not chide or weep.
It pulsed with all you taught it to recall.
A soft reminder: your location’s on.
A gentle nudge: “It’s time to check your voice.”
And yes, you tapped. You scrolled. You read aloud.
You let it tell you what to say, and when.
You nodded. You complied. You shared. You smiled.
The spider never bit. You stayed. You scrolled.
The .Net is a poetic autopsy of a culture caught in its own architecture. It examines how control no longer arrives as force, but as frictionless convenience—how totalitarianism in the digital age is not enforced, but invited. Through the metaphor of a passive predator—a spider that need not chase—we explore how users become prey not through ignorance alone, but through hunger, distraction, and willing participation.
This is not a warning. It is a confession.
We were not caught. We stayed. We scrolled.
