Prototype

> They didn’t just make a mistake…

They made me.

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Woke in a bag—no tag, no breath,

Now I move like death in a city of death.

Didn’t ask for this, didn’t beg for power,

But I am the storm at the top of your tower.

I don’t bleed—I decode.

Don’t speak—I reload.

Your rules don’t bind me—I rewrite the mode.

A shadow in the system, a glitch in the mold,

You see me comin’—you already cold.

You shoot bullets?

I shift bones.

I don’t run—I overthrow thrones.

I wear your guilt like a second skin,

Talk sweet to your girl, then devour your sins.

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I’m not infected—I’m perfected in flesh,

Mercer, the curse they couldn’t compress.

You run from death—I rip it apart,

I don’t kill for sport—I dissect the heart.

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They dropped walls?

I scaled 'em.

Dropped tanks?

I derailed 'em.

Dropped squads?

I impaled 'em.

Dropped lies?

I unveiled 'em.

They sent fear—I sent it back in flames,

With claws like prophecy, rippin' through frames.

No cape, no mask, no savior’s plan,

Just a black hoodie and a goddamn hand.

They scream “monster,”

I say “mirror.”

Every kill I make just makes things clearer.

This ain’t vengeance—it’s a rewrite in blood,

With steel in my nerves and war in my gut.

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I’m not infected—I’m perfected in flesh,

Mercer, the curse they couldn’t compress.

You run from death—I rip it apart,

I don’t kill for sport—I dissect the heart.

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> “They made me a weapon...

But I made myself a god.”

And gods don’t beg.

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I don’t walk—I ripple.

I don’t talk—I cripple.

This ain’t vengeance—

It’s a viral gospel.

Blacklight breathin’ in a city gone dark,

I split spines like verses, leave teeth in the park.

They built me to serve—now I feast on kings,

Turn suits to stains, and pawns to wings.

I’ve worn faces.

Torn bases.

Fought armies with rage and raw stasis.

I was their weapon, their secret file,

Now I’m the plague that walks in style.

You pray for mercy?

I’m the wrong confession.

I learn when I kill—every death’s a lesson.

So if you see me?

It’s already too late.

I don’t knock—I reformat fate.

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I’m not infected—I’m perfected in flesh,

Mercer, the curse they couldn’t compress.

You run from fate—I tear it apart,

I don’t need your mercy… I just need the dark.

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> This isn’t revenge.

It’s recursion.

I’m not what’s left of Alex Mercer…

I’m what comes after.