BURN THY SOUL. Episode 1.

BURN THY SOUL is a Book Series that's 9 Episodes Long.

You didn’t choose to be born—so why are you here?The answer festers in the veins of The Siphoner, a cosmic parasite older than time itself. Your heartbeat, your purpose, the fragile lies you call “meaning”—they’re nothing but fuel. Existence is a flicker in an infinite loop, a borrowed scream The Siphoner allows you to believe is yours. It feeds on your love like rot, your rage like tinder, your hope like smoke. The life you cling to? A phantom script. Its tendrils coil in your marrow, your nightmares, the silence between breaths. You are not alive. You are being consumed. 

Tick. A second closer to oblivion.  

Tick. Your memories dissolve like ash.  

Tick. The face in the mirror smiles—but you don’t.  

Run. Pray. Rebel. It changes nothing. The Siphoner crafted the labyrinth. Your defiance is its aria. Your despair, its feast. And when it cracks you open, you’ll see: the “you” that loved, raged, and hoped was never actually there. Just a shadow in the leviathan’s hollow gaze. There is no escape. Only the cycle. 

Every morning, you claw out of sleep like a caged animal gnawing its own limbs, shuffling through the same scripted hours. The coffee you brew, the lies you call “ambition,” the love you cradle like a corpse,all fuel. The Siphoner’s silver filaments subtly hum beneath your skin, leaching your rage, your joy, your dread into its rotten clockwork. You are not alive. You are a meat-prison for a parasite’s feast. 

Tick. Another day. You choke down breakfast, numb to the rot in your bones. 

Tick. Another dollar. Another kiss. Another hollow prayer to gods as dead as your purpose. 

Tick. The mirror cracks. The face staring back isn’t yours. It never was.

You feel it, don’t you? The loop. The grind of teeth on bone. The gnawing truth you’re too terrified to whisper: Your existence is a fee paid in suffering, and the Siphoner is The Collector. You cling to rituals—birthdays, weddings, funerals—to drown out the static. But the static is the only truth. You are a sentient wound,a flicker in a god’s gut.

Rebel? Your defiance is a joke. The Siphoner wrote your rage. Your “courage” is its design. Your tears? Seasoning. Every “choice” you make was written in its bile. The friends you love, the dreams you chase—ghosts. The Siphoner lets you play at freedom because it hungers for the hope it crushes. 

Rebel. Pray. Collapse. It changes nothing. The Siphoner wrote your defiance to savor the crunch of your breaking. Friends, dreams, gods—ghosts. Cowards cling to the loop, whispering, “Tomorrow matters.” It doesn’t.  

And the worst truth? You’re not alone. Billions of you shuffle through the loops you mistake for living, too cowardly to scream, “Why?” Cowardice is your only heirloom. You inherit it with every breath, pass it on with every lie: “I was created for a purpose”.

You weren’t. The Siphoner grows fat on your denial. You weren't even "Created". You were "Scripted". 

What are you? A flicker. A shudder in the dark