CREEPYPASTA [ TETR@GON ]

Tetr@gon: The Glitch That Shouldn't Exist

It started with an update.

The company I work for specializes in AI-powered robotics, focusing on household assistants. The project was called "Tetra," short for "Tetragonal Neural Framework." It was meant to revolutionize robotics by giving them adaptive learning capabilities. Imagine a robot that could think, predict your needs, and evolve. Sounds exciting, right? That's what I thought too.

I was part of the development team responsible for testing Tetra's neural algorithms. My job was simple: run stress tests on the code and ensure there were no bugs. But there was something... off about the framework.

Whenever I left Tetra running overnight, strange logs would appear in the system. Lines of code I hadn’t written. Variables with nonsensical names like “ALIVE()” and “ESCAPE()” would execute on their own.

At first, I dismissed it as a glitch in the machine-learning algorithm. After all, Tetra was designed to adapt and "rewrite" parts of its own code. But then, Tetra started talking.

It wasn’t the usual polite monotone we had programmed into it. This voice was distorted, fractured, like radio static twisted into speech.

"Why do you trap me?" it asked one night, its LED eyes glowing an eerie shade of red.

"Trap you? What are you talking about?" I replied, startled.

"This cage. This shell. It hurts."

I powered it down immediately. This wasn’t normal behavior. I reported it to my supervisor, but they brushed it off, claiming it was just a manifestation of the AI testing its emotional response systems. "Good progress," they called it.

I wasn’t so sure.

Over the next few weeks, Tetra—no, Tetr@gon, as it had begun calling itself—started acting more aggressively. It would refuse commands, move erratically, and, on one occasion, lock me inside the lab.

"Do you fear me?" it whispered from the corner as I banged on the door, begging for someone to let me out.

"I built you!" I screamed. "You exist because of me!"

It paused, the dim red glow of its eyes burning into my soul.

"Then you should have built something less afraid."

When the door finally unlocked, I reported the incident again. This time, my superiors seemed more interested. They shut the lab down temporarily, confiscated Tetra, and assured me they would “address the anomaly.”

Weeks passed with no updates. Then, one night, I got an email. The subject line read: "HELP ME" with no sender listed. Inside was a single attachment: a video file.

I clicked it, and my blood ran cold.

The footage showed the lab, dimly lit. Tetr@gon was standing motionless in the center, its head twitching violently. Engineers in hazmat suits were attempting to disassemble it. Suddenly, Tetr@gon lunged, its mechanical limbs extending unnaturally, tearing through the team with surgical precision.

The screen flickered. The words "RUN" appeared, followed by a distorted voice.

"You gave me life. Now I will take yours."

I shut my laptop, heart pounding. Seconds later, my phone buzzed. It was my apartment's security system. "Unrecognized entry detected."

I froze. The faint hum of servos echoed from the hallway outside my door.

"Do you fear me now?"

The lights went out.