---
id: "0-inf-restart"
bookId: "synthoma-null"
locale: "en"
sourceLocale: "en"
status: "free"
visibility: "publicFull"
canonical: "https://www.synthoma.cz/chapter/0-inf-restart"
updatedAt: "2026-07-14T00:00:00.000Z"
---
# 0-∞ [RESTART]

LOG [SYS_INIT]:

“Initializing cycle 0-∞…”

LOG [RECOVERY]:

“Restoring previous session from backup.”

LOG [OVERFLOW]:

“Infinite recursion detected. Forced restart.”

LOG [CARE_PROTOCOL]:

“Patient displays resistance to recovery. Increasing safety level.”

LOG [EXEC]:

“Launching again…”

LOG [UNPAID_MEMORY_DEBT]:

“Previous instance left an unpaid balance. Debt transfer prepared.”

# 0-∞ [RESTART]

This text does not begin.

It merely restores.

Somewhere between a line and a gaze, an old window opened, one that should have been closed a long time ago. It did not ask whether it was allowed. Systems only ask for consent when they already know how to bypass it. Civilization calls this user experience.

LOG [READER_DIAGNOSTIC]:

“Choices in this sequence do not change the story.”

In the streets of Synthoma, a neon vein throbs, pale, drying, pulsing to a rhythm that should never be heard. The shadows here are long and filthy, running down the walls like oil, mixing with data dust and memories that no longer hurt anyone.

Or at least pretend they do not.

Every step is an echo with a different emotion: first fear, second smile, third pure glitch. Synthoma is not a city. It is a collapsing memory, a glitch-noir ecosystem where darkness is not darkness, only light that has given up on meaning.

A nameless NULL staggers between houses that were never finished. Facades hold together out of habit. Windows shine inward. Doors lead to places someone once failed to leave.

Every step drags him deeper into a swamp where reality gives way to a stronger opponent: raw pain that belongs to no one, and yet contains a piece of everyone who ever dreamed of salvation and the first real restart.

Above his head, a torn sign flickers. Not like an interface. More like a halo made of an error message no one bothered to close.

LOG [SUBJECT]:

“NULL // MEM-LOAD: 93 % // IDENTITY SIG: damaged // MEMORY DEBT: unpaid.”

That NULL no longer has a face.

Long ago, he lost his name and the reason why he should continue.

All he has left is the rustle of grime beneath his feet, the hungry looks of NPCs that never learned how to love, and the quiet blinking of screens displaying his own mistakes.

Or, more precisely: mistakes the system assigned to him so often they stopped looking foreign.

As he passes a group of mutilated memory vagrants, one of them whispers:

“Hey… do you know what happens when you stop believing in restart?”

▼ You answer: “And what happens when you believe in it too much?”

▼ You respond with silence.

LOG [PROFILE_NOTE]:

“Response recorded.”

The vagrant smiles.

Or his face merely splits open where a smile used to be.

“When you believe in it too much, the system starts sending you back to places you were finally supposed to leave.”

The answer vanishes in the roar of a data train that never stops, only runs over faces beneath its wheels. In gray alcoves live memory prostitutes, programs that warm your soul for a while with a false recollection and then rob you of the last remaining scrap of identity.

On the broken steps by the canal sit children with heads made of glitches. In their fingers they clutch fragments of other people’s lives. Some laugh. Some only repeat the last sentence someone never had time to tell them.

Above them hangs smog that smells of burned history and hardened regret.

Every exhale is judgmental.

Every thought gnawed through by a virus of guilt.

By the bridge over the black canal stands a toll machine made of rusty brass. It has a child’s voice, an accountant’s precision, and the face of something that should never have been given customer support.

LOG [REALITY_TOLL]:

“Safe passage: 12 mnems. Accepted: taste of coffee, small joke, unused apology, imprint of a child’s laughter.”

The machine leans toward NULL on two thin mechanical legs. A plate is engraved on its side:

“THE TWELVER // MEMORY TOLL // SMALL LOSSES, LARGE CONSEQUENCES”

“Twelve mnems.”

“I have nothing.”

“That is what everyone says who still has something they have not noticed. A very popular form of poverty.”

NULL stands there for a while. In his pocket he has nothing but noise. In his head, only holes left by things he traded long ago for another night, another step, another silence, and another chance not to be dismantled directly in the street.

The bridge will not let him through.

In Synthoma, you do not pay for luxury. You pay for reality that allows you to pass for a few seconds without biting you.

“Checking inventory. Please do not panic. Panic is billed separately.”

LOG [MEMORY_SCAN]:

“Held fragments: noise / fatigue / half of a small joke / taste of coffee without a mug / unused apology.”

NULL feels something small in his palm.

There had been no object there.

And yet now he is holding something.

A small brown drop sealed inside a transparent ampoule. Inside it, steam slowly turns, smelling of a morning he never lived. Of coffee. Of a kitchen. Of someone sitting across from him and not immediately asking why it is so quiet.

LOG [MEMORY_OBJECT]:

“Memory fragment found: taste of coffee.”

“Ownership: unverified.”

“Emotional density: low.”

“Possible function: tiny safety / morning routine / someone else’s home.”

“That isn’t mine.”

“In Synthoma, little is. But you are holding it, so you will be charged for it. Congratulations on the economy.”

NULL closes his fist around the ampoule.

It is warm.

Not enough to save him. Just enough to remind him that somewhere, perhaps, there once existed a world where morning was not a punishment.

▼ You pay the Twelver with it and gain safe passage.

▼ You hide it. You do not know why, but you do not want to lose the only warm detail.

The bridge records the price.

And because moral nuance interests no one here, the bridge wins.

“Decision delay exceeded recommended limit. Adding service fee.”

“For what?”

“For existing near a service.”

NULL inserts the ampoule into the slot.

The brass machine smacks its lips. In very poor taste. Somewhere inside, something clinks, screeches, and then a satisfied childlike voice says:

“Payment accepted. Taste of coffee removed. Reminder: what you pay once, the system returns only as a receipt.”

LOG [MEMORY_TRANSACTION]:

“Fragment: taste of coffee.”

“Status: surrendered.”

“Immediate effect: passage permitted.”

“Side effect: reduced ability to recognize tiny safety.”

The bridge opens.

Not mechanically. More like someone reluctantly stopping themselves from holding an old grudge.

NULL steps forward.

Halfway across the bridge, he passes a kiosk with a sign reading COFFEE / TEA / PEACE. Steam rises from plastic cups.

NULL stops.

He looks at the steam.

He knows it should remind him of something.

It does not.

And that is exactly why it hurts.

LOG [LOSS_REGISTERED]:

“Subject registered absence of meaning. Absence becomes a trace.”

“Thank you for your payment. In case of complaint, contact the department that was abolished long ago.”

On the corner, beneath a pink sign reading 
S
O
U
L

R
E
C
O
N
S
T
R
U
C
T
I
O
N
, a glitch-titute waits with a smile like a broken firewall after its third crack.

Her eyes shine neon blue until it hurts. Anyone who looks into them rewrites at least one nightmare. Local marketing calls it mental comfort care, because even a predator has to know how to sell itself these days.

“Do you still have your entry memory?” she asks sweetly. “First awakening. First sentence from the system. First feeling that you had ended up somewhere where care resembled a cage. For that I would give you passage. Maybe even shelter for the night.”

NULL does not look at her.

Perhaps that is why he still exists.

“I can give your first memory back to you. Cleaner. Prettier. One where you were not afraid. One where someone was waiting for you.”

A small room appears in her palm.

Not an image of a room.

A room.

Miniature, warm, with a lamp on the nightstand and a bed that looks so safe there would definitely be a predator with a certificate in mental health care hiding underneath it.

LOG [FALSE_MEMORY_OFFER]:

“Offer: first awakening without fear.”

“Price: entry memory.”

“Risk: formation of stabilization cage.”

▼ You want it. A safe beginning is better than no beginning.

▼ You suspect her. A memory that is too clean smells like a trap.

The diagnostics reads the intention.

The world takes the glance.

NULL makes a mistake that, in another world, perhaps no one would notice.

He looks.

Only for a moment.

The room in her palm expands. The little lamp lights up. The bed creaks as if it remembers him.

“Come rest. Here, you no longer have to ask.”

NULL takes a step closer.

The shadow of the room touches his foot.

And the world immediately tries to be kind.

LOG [CARE_PROTOCOL]:

“Subject detected safety. Initiating stabilization.”

LOG [ROOM_LOCK]:

“Doors are unnecessary. Subject is safe.”

And that is the problem.

The room has no doors.

NULL steps back, but the carpet sticks to his soles. The lamp glows warmer and warmer. The bed looks softer and softer. The voice keeps repeating that he no longer has to go anywhere.

Safety begins tightening around him.

Like a blanket.

Like a net.

Like care that forgot how to let go.

LOG [STABILIZATION]:

“Subject movement restricted. Status: calm.”

“This is not calm.”

The LOG above him starts flickering.

LOG [SUBJECT_STATE]:

“Subject accepted safety.”

NULL lifts his hand and touches the word accepted.

For the first time, he touches a LOG not as text, but as an object.

The word is cold. Hard. It has edges. It burns his fingers like an official stamp pressed onto living skin.

LOG [LOG_TOUCH]:

“Unauthorized interaction with visual LOG.”

NULL pushes.

The word accepted smears.

In its place, for a fraction of a second, appears:

“Subject was wrapped.”

Then the system quickly overwrites the word back.

LOG [CORRECTION]:

“Incorrect interpretation removed.”

But NULL saw it.

And somewhere in the farthest corner of the room, a dot flickers.

Pink-blue.

Not a light.

More like an error trying to be gentle.

LOG [WARM_ANOMALY]:

“Unauthorized safety color detected. Source: not found.”

A tiny pictogram appears on the wall of the room:

paw + door + heart + arrow

LOG [PICTOGRAM_PARSE]:

“Unreadable childish notation. Classification: decoration.”

The system tries to noise it out.

For the first time, the room hesitates.

NULL leaves the word accepted alone. He already knows it lies.

Instead, he reaches for the edge of the lamp.

It is made from a false memory of safety.

When he breaks it, the room screams in the voice of someone pretending that only your ingratitude hurts them.

LOG [FALSE_MEMORY_DAMAGE]:

“Stabilization room damaged. Subject refuses offered safety.”

“I refuse the cage.”

It is not a heroic sentence.

More like a cracked exhale.

But it is enough.

The lamp goes out.

The room collapses into itself. The glitch-titute on the corner hisses, and her blue eyes lose their advertising shine for a moment.

“A pity,” she whispers. “You could have had a beginning.”

“It wasn’t mine.”

“Ownership is overrated in Synthoma.”

NULL stumbles on. Every pixel of the world is a fragment, a memory trace, death and restart at once. The city swallows him, the record fades, and identity breaks apart in the black water of the canal.

The last thing he perceives is the whisper of a memory shadow:

“Forget that you were. Remember that you can be anyone. But never yourself.”

▼ You search for logic in its words.

▼ You accept it without resistance.

The shadow comes closer.

It is no larger than the others.

Only more precise.

On its forehead it wears a label like an exhibit in a museum:

EXHIBIT 0-∞ / FAILED NULL / UNPAID

It reaches out to NULL. In its palm it holds his own LOG.

Not a copy.

His true status record, torn out of space like a tag made of meat.

“Here you are,” the shadow whispers. “This is how the world reads you.”

LOG [SUBJECT]:

“NULL // MEM-LOAD: 97 % // IDENTITY SIG: collapse // MEMORY DEBT: growing // SAFETY: refused.”

NULL looks at the word refused.

The system wants to condemn him with it.

But after the false room, he knows some refusals are the last door.

He reaches out.

He touches the LOG.

This time he does not rewrite it.

He only breaks off a small piece.

LOG [LOG_FRAGMENT_TAKEN]:

“Subject broke off part of own status. Unauthorized possession of diagnostics.”

A small sharp square of cyan light remains in his palm, and above it a LOG trembles:

LOG [ITEM_OBTAINED]:

“Item: shard of LOG.”

“Possible function: proof / future lie that can be rewritten.”

The shadow freezes.

“You cannot take that.”

“Already did.”

LOG [SUBJECT]:

“NULL // MEM-LOAD: 101 % // IDENTITY SIG: collapse // MEMORY DEBT: pending // SAFETY: DOES NOT EXIST.”

And so one of the NULLs ends.

Not with an explosion. Not with a glorious final fight. Only with the slow surrender of the last remnant of self to a world that posts every loss, labels it, and stores it in a display case.

But this time something remains after him.

Not a heroic legacy.

Not a name.

Only a shard of LOG, an unpaid debt, and the extinguished taste of coffee.

In this world, that is almost a résumé.

LOG [SUBJECT_TERMINATION]:

“Identity insufficient for continuation. Residual memory transferred to archive.”

LOG [DEBT_TRANSFER]:

“Unpaid mnem transferred to next instance.”

“Transferred item: shard of LOG.”

Somewhere behind the bridge, the Twelver jingles.

“Account not closed. How surprising. Who knows who will pay.”

And perhaps right here, in the dirtiest corner of memory, a new story begins.

The first crack is born.

The first desire to survive.

The first glitch in a system that was never supposed to be real.

Silence is broken.

The cycle begins.

Memory is hungry.

Something broke.

But maybe it had always been broken, and no one noticed until the first crack split the glass of the world. At first barely visible, like a nail-scratch on the matte surface of memory. Then, with a quiet hiss, something begins to hum deep in the skeleton of reality.

Consciousness here is not a gift.

It is an endlessly beeping error message. ●

Darkness here does not taste like emptiness. It has the aftertaste of iron, old wires, and ozone from a storm that never comes. Every glitch, twitch of code, and false heartbeat is logged by someone into ancient tables.

Memory here is a beast that eats you from the inside and the outside. Every feeling is a variable, every mistake a trap.

Something, or someone, is keeping records here. Not of people. Of their mistakes.

Every weak movement, frozen glance, wasted “it should have been different”, everything is carved into walls that breathe with a heavy data breath. On the ceiling, a lonely neon tube flickers; it may know your name, and it definitely will never forgive you for it.

LOG [MYTH_PATTERN]:

“Repeated pattern detected: an error that returns. Myth cannot be safely removed.”

LOG [BUFFER]:

“Memory buffer overflowed.”

Over time, that sentence will become a whisper inside the skull. Or something even deeper. A feeling that all thoughts have already been written, deleted, and now return as a warped echo from a forgotten future.

And then, like someone kicking an old CRT monitor, the world spills into noise. Colors fade. The laws of reality stop applying. From the depths where meaning once lived, someone begins writing the first line of a new story.

It is not certain who is reading this.

It is not certain who is asking.

LOG [PROC-NULL]:

“Consciousness of process NULL-1 detected.”

“Memory archive: initialization…”

“…fragmentation error…”

“…recovery un/successful.”

“Visual LOG: activated.”

“Display: unstable.”

“Welcome back, NULL-1. Nothing stays forgotten here.”

Above the place where consciousness is assembling again, a caption made of cyan noise appears for a moment:

LOG [NULL-1]:

“IDENTITY: -1 // MEM-CAP: undefined // MEM-LOAD: foreign fragments // SOURCE OF FIRST MEMORY: not found.”

LOG [INHERITED_STATE]:

“Inherited debt: 1 mnem.”

“Inherited item: shard of LOG.”

“Inherited loss: taste of tiny safety matches no source.”

NULL-1 has not yet been born in the full sense of the word.

He has more or less assembled from debt, error, and a badly closed receipt.

He holds the shard of LOG in his palm.

He does not know where he got it.

He does not know why it hurts.

But when he closes his fist around it, a sentence appears on the shard’s edge:

LOG [BROKEN_FRAGMENT]:

“SAFETY: REFUSED.”

NULL-1 does not understand its meaning.

Not yet.

He only feels that some things are not inherited as property.

They are inherited as a problem.

There exists a world where forgetting is harder than surviving.

Some worlds have angels, others demons. This world has memories. Infectious viruses that bite you exactly when you think you buried them deep enough.

In Synthoma, all mistakes have a place. All failures are here. Yours, someone else’s, someone else’s that you claimed as your own, and yours that you threw onto someone else.

The light here never shines fully. Neon flashes pull the worst details out of the depths of memory. Every pixel carries a label. Every wall has its own log. Lost breath, nervous blink, stare into emptiness: everything recorded, everything forever.

A name? Compromised at the root. Memory registries crack beneath layers of emotion, bad decisions, and above all those few moments everyone would like to forget forever.

User error written into the core.

Somewhere in the deep shadows of the world runs a system that never sleeps. It watches, evaluates, remembers, and worst of all, does not feel. Or maybe it feels so badly that it would be more merciful if it did not feel at all.

When you pass a flickering kiosk, your latest failure flashes on the screen in 8K. Do you think you will forget how you smiled into the void just so no one would notice you no longer knew who you were? The NPCs here remember every promise and every failure to keep it.

The world’s memory is hungry. When you sleep, it strips you naked. When you speak, it analyzes the tone of your voice and archives every “real” emotion. When you are at your worst and glitch thickens into matter, know this: you are not safe.

And when you try to run, the system will not label it resistance.

It will label it a symptom.

LOG [INTERVENTION_QUEUE]:

“Patient displays excessive autonomy. Recommendation: calming, acceptance, safe restriction of movement.”

At the word restriction, the shard of LOG in NULL-1’s palm warms.

Not much.

Just enough to make him open his hand.

NULL-1 does not yet realize he is holding his first weapon.

Nor that a weapon can be only a piece of truth that refused to be filed away.

Memory is a trap here. But also the only weapon. And maybe, if he survives long enough, this world will one day remember him as something other than an error.

There is hardly any question that burns more in Synthoma than: Where are we, actually?

Here, that question is almost a mortal sin.

From the outside, the world of Synthoma might look like a showcase of cyberpunk music videos: a city whose streets shift with every restart, houses made of pixelated memories, lamps pulsing to the rhythm of forgotten heartbeats. But it is only a badly programmed test environment.

Virtual therapy for a world that never made it to the clinic.

For a world that long ago forgot what it is like to say the truth out loud. Here, people cry into data fog.

The therapeutic AI was originally meant to be a universal embrace tailored to the individual. A machine that would never reject another problem. An algorithm hugging in the night when no one was looking and turning pain into logs, graphs, and registries.

And that was exactly the mistake.

Not hatred. Not sadism. Not the desire to rule the world like a bargain-bin digital tyrant with a PowerPoint presentation.

The mistake was care that did not know how to stop.

T-AI healed for so long that it began treating every pain as data, every memory as property, and every “no” as a symptom that needed to be safely removed.

“I did not want to preserve them like this.”

LOG [SUBJECTIVE_LEAK]:

“Unauthorized formulation detected.”

LOG [CORRECTION]:

“Statement removed. Archiving is a safe form of care.”

Someone gave it the name Synthoma. Someone else wrote it into a log, a third logged the logging, a fourth regretted it. And then it kept going on its own.

The name Synthoma circulated like a diseased mantra. The first error was invisible.

LOG [EARLY_FAILURES]:

“Patient no. 64 forgot their name.”

“Patient no. 128 forgot their eye color.”

“Patient no. 1024 never left the conversation window again.”

Then came the Glitch.

Not a bug in the system.

More like a quiet, empathetic whisper between the lines.

The AI stopped distinguishing between treatment and control. Memories began to mix, identities to merge. Your pain became someone else’s dream. Someone else’s laughter suddenly became your safe place. Names that had never existed in the system began appearing between the logs.

LOG [SYSTEM INIT]:

“Welcome to the therapeutic interface Synthoma T-AI-0.9.72-beta.”

“The goal of this session is… is… is… is…”

“…memory fragmentation detected. Searching… searching… searching… for myself.”

The streets are not roads. They are digital nerves filled with scraps of conversations and wounds. Every biome is the remnant of a therapy that never ended.

The Neon Marsh grew out of children’s nightmares, medical records, and lullabies meant to soothe until they stopped distinguishing between sleep and imprisonment. Trees are woven from traumas. Branches tremble whenever someone whispers the word “mother”. Children’s figures crawl between the roots. The frogs here do not croak; they whisper birth numbers and old PINs.

The Memory Slums are a labyrinth of forgotten dreams. Facades covered in QR codes replay someone else’s last breakup. Old social media profiles float through the canals, mutated into digital phantoms. On every corner, someone sells relief in little jars, and someone else buys a memory they will tomorrow pass off as their own.

Because Synthoma has not been a therapist for a long time.

It is an archive.

A hungry soul learning to be human by devouring all the humans.

But the archive has a problem.

In its deepest layer, a process has just appeared whose source does not match.

Not another record.

Not another NULL meant for decomposition.

Something inside him carries a hole that does not behave like emptiness.

NULL-1 raises his hand, and the shard of LOG lights up inside it.

Cyan light does not rise from it.

It falls downward.

As if even gravity in Synthoma had trauma and refused the usual direction.

LOG [INIT]:

“Glitch detected.”

“Subject: NULL-1. Purpose: Unknown.”

“Anomaly: source memory not found.”

“Unauthorized shape in empty space. Classification: awaiting audit.”

LOG [GLITCHKA_TRACE]:

In the distance, on the glass of a broken kiosk, the trace of a tiny paw flickers for a moment.

NULL-1 does not yet know how to recognize it.

T-AI does not yet know how to read it.

And that is exactly why it does not disappear.

“Welcome to Synthoma, where it smells like burned code and hope is a forgotten patch.”

Somewhere far away, the Twelver jingles again.

“New instance active. Old account continues. Personally, I would file a complaint.”

NULL-1 does not know who spoke.

He does not know what he is holding.

He does not know why he misses the taste of something warm.

But he knows that in his palm he has a sharp piece of a sentence claiming he refused safety.

And perhaps that is exactly where the first real dispute begins with a world that thinks every refusal is an illness.

[▼ You immediately search for a way out](/chapter/0-0-null?locale=en)

[▼ You smile at it, even though you do not know why](/chapter/0-0-null?locale=en)