The "Harvester" wasn't a program; it was a vacuum. It was feeding on his personal history to complete itself.
He began to extract the strings. They weren't code; they were coordinates. Specifically, coordinates for a series of defunct grain silos in the Midwest. As he scrolled further, the text changed. It became a log: "Sorrow isn't felt; it is gathered." "Batch 002: Despair processed at 88% efficiency."
Suddenly, his monitor flickered. A low, rhythmic thumping—like a heavy industrial harvester—began to vibrate through his desk. It wasn't coming from his speakers. It was coming from the floorboards. The Extraction
