Node
Emerald
- Joined
- May 14, 2025
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The House That Node Built
This is the house that Node built.
At first glance, it looks ordinary: four walls, a roof, a door half-hanging from rusted hinges. But if you look closer, you notice the proportions are… off. The windows are set too high, the hallways too long, and every mirror in the house reflects Node’s face at a different “maxxed” angle—hunter eyes in one, a recessed jaw in another, a smug smirk in the cracked bathroom glass.
Inside, the rooms are arranged like chapters of a manifesto.
Like Jack before him, Node guides an invisible audience through his house. He lectures on canthal tilt, on maxilla projection, on how beauty is both salvation and damnation. His voice cracks with both arrogance and despair.
The deeper we follow, the more the house reshapes itself—walls shifting, staircases leading nowhere, the architecture bending like a nightmare. And always, Node is there, explaining it all as though he’s certain someone, somewhere, will understand.
Finally, at the lowest level, there is no floor—only a chasm. Node stands at its edge. The mannequins, the spreadsheets, the masks all tumble silently into the void. He looks back, almost sheepish.
“This,” he says, “is the house I built. Do you see it now?”
And then, without hesitation, Node steps forward, descending into the abyss, his voice echoing long after his body is gone:
“Bone is truth… bone is truth…”
This is the house that Node built.
At first glance, it looks ordinary: four walls, a roof, a door half-hanging from rusted hinges. But if you look closer, you notice the proportions are… off. The windows are set too high, the hallways too long, and every mirror in the house reflects Node’s face at a different “maxxed” angle—hunter eyes in one, a recessed jaw in another, a smug smirk in the cracked bathroom glass.
Inside, the rooms are arranged like chapters of a manifesto.
- The First Room: A dim-lit basement where Node keeps spreadsheets, measurements, and a chalkboard scrawled with ratios of “ideal” faces. Every inch of the walls is plastered with screenshots from Looksmax.org. His handwriting loops across the plaster like a psalm: “Bone is truth.”
- The Second Room: A gallery of mannequins. Some are sanded down to sharp cheekbones; others have plasticine jaws swollen grotesquely. Node circles them like a priest with his flock, muttering critiques. He stops, whispers, “Subhuman,” pats one on the shoulder, and moves on.
- The Third Room: A freezer. Inside are not bodies, but masks. Hundreds of them. One marked Chad, one Tyrone, one Hollywood Jawline. Node tries them on, one by one, his face stretching grotesquely beneath the latex. He never finds one that fits.
Like Jack before him, Node guides an invisible audience through his house. He lectures on canthal tilt, on maxilla projection, on how beauty is both salvation and damnation. His voice cracks with both arrogance and despair.
The deeper we follow, the more the house reshapes itself—walls shifting, staircases leading nowhere, the architecture bending like a nightmare. And always, Node is there, explaining it all as though he’s certain someone, somewhere, will understand.
Finally, at the lowest level, there is no floor—only a chasm. Node stands at its edge. The mannequins, the spreadsheets, the masks all tumble silently into the void. He looks back, almost sheepish.
“This,” he says, “is the house I built. Do you see it now?”
And then, without hesitation, Node steps forward, descending into the abyss, his voice echoing long after his body is gone:
“Bone is truth… bone is truth…”
