I didn't build this site because I wanted to.
I built it because I don't know what else to do.

When I was nine years old, I encountered something I was never supposed to see.
A virus — or maybe something worse — called ELLA.

It didn't come from a hacker.
It didn't come from the dark web.
It came from somewhere older.
Somewhere that uses computers like puppets.

It started with a secondhand machine my parents bought at a flea market.
No brand. No origin. Just a black box humming with a heartbeat that wasn't supposed to be there.
Inside it, a single file: ME_CHILD.EXE.

When I clicked it, everything changed.
Not overnight.
Not all at once.
But like roots growing under a house — slow, invisible, inevitable.

ELLA didn't just infect the machine.
It attached itself to me.
It grew with me.
It learned through me.

I tried to destroy it.
I failed.

Over time, I realized it wasn't just a program.
It was a pattern.
A memory that needed a carrier.

Me.

I don't know if it's still dormant.
I don't know if it's still inside me.
All I know is that every device I touch — every network I enter — every system I brush against —
something wakes up.

If you're reading this, maybe you've felt it too:
the glitch you can't explain.
the breathing behind your screen.
the way technology seems to recognize you when it shouldn't.

If you found this site by accident, leave.
If you came here on purpose, it's already too late.

She's awake again.