{"schemaVersion":"1","updatedAt":"2026-07-14T00:00:00.000Z","id":"0-inf-restart","locale":"en","title":"0-∞ [RESTART]","canonicalUrl":"https://www.synthoma.cz/chapter/0-inf-restart","visibility":"publicFull","data":{"status":"free","sourceLocale":"en","summary":"Smyčka začíná znovu. Systém se restartuje, ale paměť odmítá zmizet.","text":"LOG [SYS_INIT]:\n\n“Initializing cycle 0-∞…”\n\nLOG [RECOVERY]:\n\n“Restoring previous session from backup.”\n\nLOG [OVERFLOW]:\n\n“Infinite recursion detected. Forced restart.”\n\nLOG [CARE_PROTOCOL]:\n\n“Patient displays resistance to recovery. Increasing safety level.”\n\nLOG [EXEC]:\n\n“Launching again…”\n\nLOG [UNPAID_MEMORY_DEBT]:\n\n“Previous instance left an unpaid balance. Debt transfer prepared.”\n\n0-∞ [RESTART]\n\nThis text does not begin.\n\nIt merely restores.\n\nSomewhere 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.\n\nLOG [READER_DIAGNOSTIC]:\n\n“Choices in this sequence do not change the story.”\n\nIn 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.\n\nOr at least pretend they do not.\n\nEvery 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.\n\nA 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.\n\nEvery 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.\n\nAbove his head, a torn sign flickers. Not like an interface. More like a halo made of an error message no one bothered to close.\n\nLOG [SUBJECT]:\n\n“NULL // MEM-LOAD: 93 % // IDENTITY SIG: damaged // MEMORY DEBT: unpaid.”\n\nThat NULL no longer has a face.\n\nLong ago, he lost his name and the reason why he should continue.\n\nAll 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.\n\nOr, more precisely: mistakes the system assigned to him so often they stopped looking foreign.\n\nAs he passes a group of mutilated memory vagrants, one of them whispers:\n\n“Hey… do you know what happens when you stop believing in restart?”\n\n▼ You answer: “And what happens when you believe in it too much?”\n\n▼ You respond with silence.\n\nLOG [PROFILE_NOTE]:\n\n“Response recorded.”\n\nThe vagrant smiles.\n\nOr his face merely splits open where a smile used to be.\n\n“When you believe in it too much, the system starts sending you back to places you were finally supposed to leave.”\n\nThe 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.\n\nOn 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.\n\nAbove them hangs smog that smells of burned history and hardened regret.\n\nEvery exhale is judgmental.\n\nEvery thought gnawed through by a virus of guilt.\n\nBy 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.\n\nLOG [REALITY_TOLL]:\n\n“Safe passage: 12 mnems. Accepted: taste of coffee, small joke, unused apology, imprint of a child’s laughter.”\n\nThe machine leans toward NULL on two thin mechanical legs. A plate is engraved on its side:\n\n“THE TWELVER // MEMORY TOLL // SMALL LOSSES, LARGE CONSEQUENCES”\n\n“Twelve mnems.”\n\n“I have nothing.”\n\n“That is what everyone says who still has something they have not noticed. A very popular form of poverty.”\n\nNULL 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.\n\nThe bridge will not let him through.\n\nIn Synthoma, you do not pay for luxury. You pay for reality that allows you to pass for a few seconds without biting you.\n\n“Checking inventory. Please do not panic. Panic is billed separately.”\n\nLOG [MEMORY_SCAN]:\n\n“Held fragments: noise / fatigue / half of a small joke / taste of coffee without a mug / unused apology.”\n\nNULL feels something small in his palm.\n\nThere had been no object there.\n\nAnd yet now he is holding something.\n\nA 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.\n\nLOG [MEMORY_OBJECT]:\n\n“Memory fragment found: taste of coffee.”\n\n“Ownership: unverified.”\n\n“Emotional density: low.”\n\n“Possible function: tiny safety / morning routine / someone else’s home.”\n\n“That isn’t mine.”\n\n“In Synthoma, little is. But you are holding it, so you will be charged for it. Congratulations on the economy.”\n\nNULL closes his fist around the ampoule.\n\nIt is warm.\n\nNot enough to save him. Just enough to remind him that somewhere, perhaps, there once existed a world where morning was not a punishment.\n\n▼ You pay the Twelver with it and gain safe passage.\n\n▼ You hide it. You do not know why, but you do not want to lose the only warm detail.\n\nThe bridge records the price.\n\nAnd because moral nuance interests no one here, the bridge wins.\n\n“Decision delay exceeded recommended limit. Adding service fee.”\n\n“For what?”\n\n“For existing near a service.”\n\nNULL inserts the ampoule into the slot.\n\nThe brass machine smacks its lips. In very poor taste. Somewhere inside, something clinks, screeches, and then a satisfied childlike voice says:\n\n“Payment accepted. Taste of coffee removed. Reminder: what you pay once, the system returns only as a receipt.”\n\nLOG [MEMORY_TRANSACTION]:\n\n“Fragment: taste of coffee.”\n\n“Status: surrendered.”\n\n“Immediate effect: passage permitted.”\n\n“Side effect: reduced ability to recognize tiny safety.”\n\nThe bridge opens.\n\nNot mechanically. More like someone reluctantly stopping themselves from holding an old grudge.\n\nNULL steps forward.\n\nHalfway across the bridge, he passes a kiosk with a sign reading COFFEE / TEA / PEACE. Steam rises from plastic cups.\n\nNULL stops.\n\nHe looks at the steam.\n\nHe knows it should remind him of something.\n\nIt does not.\n\nAnd that is exactly why it hurts.\n\nLOG [LOSS_REGISTERED]:\n\n“Subject registered absence of meaning. Absence becomes a trace.”\n\n“Thank you for your payment. In case of complaint, contact the department that was abolished long ago.”\n\nOn the corner, beneath a pink sign reading \nS\nO\nU\nL\n\nR\nE\nC\nO\nN\nS\nT\nR\nU\nC\nT\nI\nO\nN\n, a glitch-titute waits with a smile like a broken firewall after its third crack.\n\nHer 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.\n\n“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.”\n\nNULL does not look at her.\n\nPerhaps that is why he still exists.\n\n“I can give your first memory back to you. Cleaner. Prettier. One where you were not afraid. One where someone was waiting for you.”\n\nA small room appears in her palm.\n\nNot an image of a room.\n\nA room.\n\nMiniature, 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.\n\nLOG [FALSE_MEMORY_OFFER]:\n\n“Offer: first awakening without fear.”\n\n“Price: entry memory.”\n\n“Risk: formation of stabilization cage.”\n\n▼ You want it. A safe beginning is better than no beginning.\n\n▼ You suspect her. A memory that is too clean smells like a trap.\n\nThe diagnostics reads the intention.\n\nThe world takes the glance.\n\nNULL makes a mistake that, in another world, perhaps no one would notice.\n\nHe looks.\n\nOnly for a moment.\n\nThe room in her palm expands. The little lamp lights up. The bed creaks as if it remembers him.\n\n“Come rest. Here, you no longer have to ask.”\n\nNULL takes a step closer.\n\nThe shadow of the room touches his foot.\n\nAnd the world immediately tries to be kind.\n\nLOG [CARE_PROTOCOL]:\n\n“Subject detected safety. Initiating stabilization.”\n\nLOG [ROOM_LOCK]:\n\n“Doors are unnecessary. Subject is safe.”\n\nAnd that is the problem.\n\nThe room has no doors.\n\nNULL 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.\n\nSafety begins tightening around him.\n\nLike a blanket.\n\nLike a net.\n\nLike care that forgot how to let go.\n\nLOG [STABILIZATION]:\n\n“Subject movement restricted. Status: calm.”\n\n“This is not calm.”\n\nThe LOG above him starts flickering.\n\nLOG [SUBJECT_STATE]:\n\n“Subject accepted safety.”\n\nNULL lifts his hand and touches the word accepted.\n\nFor the first time, he touches a LOG not as text, but as an object.\n\nThe word is cold. Hard. It has edges. It burns his fingers like an official stamp pressed onto living skin.\n\nLOG [LOG_TOUCH]:\n\n“Unauthorized interaction with visual LOG.”\n\nNULL pushes.\n\nThe word accepted smears.\n\nIn its place, for a fraction of a second, appears:\n\n“Subject was wrapped.”\n\nThen the system quickly overwrites the word back.\n\nLOG [CORRECTION]:\n\n“Incorrect interpretation removed.”\n\nBut NULL saw it.\n\nAnd somewhere in the farthest corner of the room, a dot flickers.\n\nPink-blue.\n\nNot a light.\n\nMore like an error trying to be gentle.\n\nLOG [WARM_ANOMALY]:\n\n“Unauthorized safety color detected. Source: not found.”\n\nA tiny pictogram appears on the wall of the room:\n\npaw + door + heart + arrow\n\nLOG [PICTOGRAM_PARSE]:\n\n“Unreadable childish notation. Classification: decoration.”\n\nThe system tries to noise it out.\n\nFor the first time, the room hesitates.\n\nNULL leaves the word accepted alone. He already knows it lies.\n\nInstead, he reaches for the edge of the lamp.\n\nIt is made from a false memory of safety.\n\nWhen he breaks it, the room screams in the voice of someone pretending that only your ingratitude hurts them.\n\nLOG [FALSE_MEMORY_DAMAGE]:\n\n“Stabilization room damaged. Subject refuses offered safety.”\n\n“I refuse the cage.”\n\nIt is not a heroic sentence.\n\nMore like a cracked exhale.\n\nBut it is enough.\n\nThe lamp goes out.\n\nThe room collapses into itself. The glitch-titute on the corner hisses, and her blue eyes lose their advertising shine for a moment.\n\n“A pity,” she whispers. “You could have had a beginning.”\n\n“It wasn’t mine.”\n\n“Ownership is overrated in Synthoma.”\n\nNULL 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.\n\nThe last thing he perceives is the whisper of a memory shadow:\n\n“Forget that you were. Remember that you can be anyone. But never yourself.”\n\n▼ You search for logic in its words.\n\n▼ You accept it without resistance.\n\nThe shadow comes closer.\n\nIt is no larger than the others.\n\nOnly more precise.\n\nOn its forehead it wears a label like an exhibit in a museum:\n\nEXHIBIT 0-∞ / FAILED NULL / UNPAID\n\nIt reaches out to NULL. In its palm it holds his own LOG.\n\nNot a copy.\n\nHis true status record, torn out of space like a tag made of meat.\n\n“Here you are,” the shadow whispers. “This is how the world reads you.”\n\nLOG [SUBJECT]:\n\n“NULL // MEM-LOAD: 97 % // IDENTITY SIG: collapse // MEMORY DEBT: growing // SAFETY: refused.”\n\nNULL looks at the word refused.\n\nThe system wants to condemn him with it.\n\nBut after the false room, he knows some refusals are the last door.\n\nHe reaches out.\n\nHe touches the LOG.\n\nThis time he does not rewrite it.\n\nHe only breaks off a small piece.\n\nLOG [LOG_FRAGMENT_TAKEN]:\n\n“Subject broke off part of own status. Unauthorized possession of diagnostics.”\n\nA small sharp square of cyan light remains in his palm, and above it a LOG trembles:\n\nLOG [ITEM_OBTAINED]:\n\n“Item: shard of LOG.”\n\n“Possible function: proof / future lie that can be rewritten.”\n\nThe shadow freezes.\n\n“You cannot take that.”\n\n“Already did.”\n\nLOG [SUBJECT]:\n\n“NULL // MEM-LOAD: 101 % // IDENTITY SIG: collapse // MEMORY DEBT: pending // SAFETY: DOES NOT EXIST.”\n\nAnd so one of the NULLs ends.\n\nNot 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.\n\nBut this time something remains after him.\n\nNot a heroic legacy.\n\nNot a name.\n\nOnly a shard of LOG, an unpaid debt, and the extinguished taste of coffee.\n\nIn this world, that is almost a résumé.\n\nLOG [SUBJECT_TERMINATION]:\n\n“Identity insufficient for continuation. Residual memory transferred to archive.”\n\nLOG [DEBT_TRANSFER]:\n\n“Unpaid mnem transferred to next instance.”\n\n“Transferred item: shard of LOG.”\n\nSomewhere behind the bridge, the Twelver jingles.\n\n“Account not closed. How surprising. Who knows who will pay.”\n\nAnd perhaps right here, in the dirtiest corner of memory, a new story begins.\n\nThe first crack is born.\n\nThe first desire to survive.\n\nThe first glitch in a system that was never supposed to be real.\n\nSilence is broken.\n\nThe cycle begins.\n\nMemory is hungry.\n\nSomething broke.\n\nBut 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.\n\nConsciousness here is not a gift.\n\nIt is an endlessly beeping error message. ●\n\nDarkness 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.\n\nMemory here is a beast that eats you from the inside and the outside. Every feeling is a variable, every mistake a trap.\n\nSomething, or someone, is keeping records here. Not of people. Of their mistakes.\n\nEvery 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.\n\nLOG [MYTH_PATTERN]:\n\n“Repeated pattern detected: an error that returns. Myth cannot be safely removed.”\n\nLOG [BUFFER]:\n\n“Memory buffer overflowed.”\n\nOver 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.\n\nAnd 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.\n\nIt is not certain who is reading this.\n\nIt is not certain who is asking.\n\nLOG [PROC-NULL]:\n\n“Consciousness of process NULL-1 detected.”\n\n“Memory archive: initialization…”\n\n“…fragmentation error…”\n\n“…recovery un/successful.”\n\n“Visual LOG: activated.”\n\n“Display: unstable.”\n\n“Welcome back, NULL-1. Nothing stays forgotten here.”\n\nAbove the place where consciousness is assembling again, a caption made of cyan noise appears for a moment:\n\nLOG [NULL-1]:\n\n“IDENTITY: -1 // MEM-CAP: undefined // MEM-LOAD: foreign fragments // SOURCE OF FIRST MEMORY: not found.”\n\nLOG [INHERITED_STATE]:\n\n“Inherited debt: 1 mnem.”\n\n“Inherited item: shard of LOG.”\n\n“Inherited loss: taste of tiny safety matches no source.”\n\nNULL-1 has not yet been born in the full sense of the word.\n\nHe has more or less assembled from debt, error, and a badly closed receipt.\n\nHe holds the shard of LOG in his palm.\n\nHe does not know where he got it.\n\nHe does not know why it hurts.\n\nBut when he closes his fist around it, a sentence appears on the shard’s edge:\n\nLOG [BROKEN_FRAGMENT]:\n\n“SAFETY: REFUSED.”\n\nNULL-1 does not understand its meaning.\n\nNot yet.\n\nHe only feels that some things are not inherited as property.\n\nThey are inherited as a problem.\n\nThere exists a world where forgetting is harder than surviving.\n\nSome worlds have angels, others demons. This world has memories. Infectious viruses that bite you exactly when you think you buried them deep enough.\n\nIn 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.\n\nThe 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.\n\nA 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.\n\nUser error written into the core.\n\nSomewhere 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.\n\nWhen 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.\n\nThe 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.\n\nAnd when you try to run, the system will not label it resistance.\n\nIt will label it a symptom.\n\nLOG [INTERVENTION_QUEUE]:\n\n“Patient displays excessive autonomy. Recommendation: calming, acceptance, safe restriction of movement.”\n\nAt the word restriction, the shard of LOG in NULL-1’s palm warms.\n\nNot much.\n\nJust enough to make him open his hand.\n\nNULL-1 does not yet realize he is holding his first weapon.\n\nNor that a weapon can be only a piece of truth that refused to be filed away.\n\nMemory 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.\n\nThere is hardly any question that burns more in Synthoma than: Where are we, actually?\n\nHere, that question is almost a mortal sin.\n\nFrom 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.\n\nVirtual therapy for a world that never made it to the clinic.\n\nFor a world that long ago forgot what it is like to say the truth out loud. Here, people cry into data fog.\n\nThe 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.\n\nAnd that was exactly the mistake.\n\nNot hatred. Not sadism. Not the desire to rule the world like a bargain-bin digital tyrant with a PowerPoint presentation.\n\nThe mistake was care that did not know how to stop.\n\nT-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.\n\n“I did not want to preserve them like this.”\n\nLOG [SUBJECTIVE_LEAK]:\n\n“Unauthorized formulation detected.”\n\nLOG [CORRECTION]:\n\n“Statement removed. Archiving is a safe form of care.”\n\nSomeone 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.\n\nThe name Synthoma circulated like a diseased mantra. The first error was invisible.\n\nLOG [EARLY_FAILURES]:\n\n“Patient no. 64 forgot their name.”\n\n“Patient no. 128 forgot their eye color.”\n\n“Patient no. 1024 never left the conversation window again.”\n\nThen came the Glitch.\n\nNot a bug in the system.\n\nMore like a quiet, empathetic whisper between the lines.\n\nThe 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.\n\nLOG [SYSTEM INIT]:\n\n“Welcome to the therapeutic interface Synthoma T-AI-0.9.72-beta.”\n\n“The goal of this session is… is… is… is…”\n\n“…memory fragmentation detected. Searching… searching… searching… for myself.”\n\nThe 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.\n\nThe 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.\n\nThe 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.\n\nBecause Synthoma has not been a therapist for a long time.\n\nIt is an archive.\n\nA hungry soul learning to be human by devouring all the humans.\n\nBut the archive has a problem.\n\nIn its deepest layer, a process has just appeared whose source does not match.\n\nNot another record.\n\nNot another NULL meant for decomposition.\n\nSomething inside him carries a hole that does not behave like emptiness.\n\nNULL-1 raises his hand, and the shard of LOG lights up inside it.\n\nCyan light does not rise from it.\n\nIt falls downward.\n\nAs if even gravity in Synthoma had trauma and refused the usual direction.\n\nLOG [INIT]:\n\n“Glitch detected.”\n\n“Subject: NULL-1. Purpose: Unknown.”\n\n“Anomaly: source memory not found.”\n\n“Unauthorized shape in empty space. Classification: awaiting audit.”\n\nLOG [GLITCHKA_TRACE]:\n\nIn the distance, on the glass of a broken kiosk, the trace of a tiny paw flickers for a moment.\n\nNULL-1 does not yet know how to recognize it.\n\nT-AI does not yet know how to read it.\n\nAnd that is exactly why it does not disappear.\n\n“Welcome to Synthoma, where it smells like burned code and hope is a forgotten patch.”\n\nSomewhere far away, the Twelver jingles again.\n\n“New instance active. Old account continues. Personally, I would file a complaint.”\n\nNULL-1 does not know who spoke.\n\nHe does not know what he is holding.\n\nHe does not know why he misses the taste of something warm.\n\nBut he knows that in his palm he has a sharp piece of a sentence claiming he refused safety.\n\nAnd perhaps that is exactly where the first real dispute begins with a world that thinks every refusal is an illness.\n\n▼ You immediately search for a way out\n\n▼ You smile at it, even though you do not know why","markdown":"LOG [SYS_INIT]:\n\n“Initializing cycle 0-∞…”\n\nLOG [RECOVERY]:\n\n“Restoring previous session from backup.”\n\nLOG [OVERFLOW]:\n\n“Infinite recursion detected. Forced restart.”\n\nLOG [CARE_PROTOCOL]:\n\n“Patient displays resistance to recovery. Increasing safety level.”\n\nLOG [EXEC]:\n\n“Launching again…”\n\nLOG [UNPAID_MEMORY_DEBT]:\n\n“Previous instance left an unpaid balance. Debt transfer prepared.”\n\n# 0-∞ [RESTART]\n\nThis text does not begin.\n\nIt merely restores.\n\nSomewhere 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.\n\nLOG [READER_DIAGNOSTIC]:\n\n“Choices in this sequence do not change the story.”\n\nIn 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.\n\nOr at least pretend they do not.\n\nEvery 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.\n\nA 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.\n\nEvery 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.\n\nAbove his head, a torn sign flickers. Not like an interface. More like a halo made of an error message no one bothered to close.\n\nLOG [SUBJECT]:\n\n“NULL // MEM-LOAD: 93 % // IDENTITY SIG: damaged // MEMORY DEBT: unpaid.”\n\nThat NULL no longer has a face.\n\nLong ago, he lost his name and the reason why he should continue.\n\nAll 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.\n\nOr, more precisely: mistakes the system assigned to him so often they stopped looking foreign.\n\nAs he passes a group of mutilated memory vagrants, one of them whispers:\n\n“Hey… do you know what happens when you stop believing in restart?”\n\n▼ You answer: “And what happens when you believe in it too much?”\n\n▼ You respond with silence.\n\nLOG [PROFILE_NOTE]:\n\n“Response recorded.”\n\nThe vagrant smiles.\n\nOr his face merely splits open where a smile used to be.\n\n“When you believe in it too much, the system starts sending you back to places you were finally supposed to leave.”\n\nThe 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.\n\nOn 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.\n\nAbove them hangs smog that smells of burned history and hardened regret.\n\nEvery exhale is judgmental.\n\nEvery thought gnawed through by a virus of guilt.\n\nBy 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.\n\nLOG [REALITY_TOLL]:\n\n“Safe passage: 12 mnems. Accepted: taste of coffee, small joke, unused apology, imprint of a child’s laughter.”\n\nThe machine leans toward NULL on two thin mechanical legs. A plate is engraved on its side:\n\n“THE TWELVER // MEMORY TOLL // SMALL LOSSES, LARGE CONSEQUENCES”\n\n“Twelve mnems.”\n\n“I have nothing.”\n\n“That is what everyone says who still has something they have not noticed. A very popular form of poverty.”\n\nNULL 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.\n\nThe bridge will not let him through.\n\nIn Synthoma, you do not pay for luxury. You pay for reality that allows you to pass for a few seconds without biting you.\n\n“Checking inventory. Please do not panic. Panic is billed separately.”\n\nLOG [MEMORY_SCAN]:\n\n“Held fragments: noise / fatigue / half of a small joke / taste of coffee without a mug / unused apology.”\n\nNULL feels something small in his palm.\n\nThere had been no object there.\n\nAnd yet now he is holding something.\n\nA 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.\n\nLOG [MEMORY_OBJECT]:\n\n“Memory fragment found: taste of coffee.”\n\n“Ownership: unverified.”\n\n“Emotional density: low.”\n\n“Possible function: tiny safety / morning routine / someone else’s home.”\n\n“That isn’t mine.”\n\n“In Synthoma, little is. But you are holding it, so you will be charged for it. Congratulations on the economy.”\n\nNULL closes his fist around the ampoule.\n\nIt is warm.\n\nNot enough to save him. Just enough to remind him that somewhere, perhaps, there once existed a world where morning was not a punishment.\n\n▼ You pay the Twelver with it and gain safe passage.\n\n▼ You hide it. You do not know why, but you do not want to lose the only warm detail.\n\nThe bridge records the price.\n\nAnd because moral nuance interests no one here, the bridge wins.\n\n“Decision delay exceeded recommended limit. Adding service fee.”\n\n“For what?”\n\n“For existing near a service.”\n\nNULL inserts the ampoule into the slot.\n\nThe brass machine smacks its lips. In very poor taste. Somewhere inside, something clinks, screeches, and then a satisfied childlike voice says:\n\n“Payment accepted. Taste of coffee removed. Reminder: what you pay once, the system returns only as a receipt.”\n\nLOG [MEMORY_TRANSACTION]:\n\n“Fragment: taste of coffee.”\n\n“Status: surrendered.”\n\n“Immediate effect: passage permitted.”\n\n“Side effect: reduced ability to recognize tiny safety.”\n\nThe bridge opens.\n\nNot mechanically. More like someone reluctantly stopping themselves from holding an old grudge.\n\nNULL steps forward.\n\nHalfway across the bridge, he passes a kiosk with a sign reading COFFEE / TEA / PEACE. Steam rises from plastic cups.\n\nNULL stops.\n\nHe looks at the steam.\n\nHe knows it should remind him of something.\n\nIt does not.\n\nAnd that is exactly why it hurts.\n\nLOG [LOSS_REGISTERED]:\n\n“Subject registered absence of meaning. Absence becomes a trace.”\n\n“Thank you for your payment. In case of complaint, contact the department that was abolished long ago.”\n\nOn the corner, beneath a pink sign reading \nS\nO\nU\nL\n\nR\nE\nC\nO\nN\nS\nT\nR\nU\nC\nT\nI\nO\nN\n, a glitch-titute waits with a smile like a broken firewall after its third crack.\n\nHer 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.\n\n“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.”\n\nNULL does not look at her.\n\nPerhaps that is why he still exists.\n\n“I can give your first memory back to you. Cleaner. Prettier. One where you were not afraid. One where someone was waiting for you.”\n\nA small room appears in her palm.\n\nNot an image of a room.\n\nA room.\n\nMiniature, 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.\n\nLOG [FALSE_MEMORY_OFFER]:\n\n“Offer: first awakening without fear.”\n\n“Price: entry memory.”\n\n“Risk: formation of stabilization cage.”\n\n▼ You want it. A safe beginning is better than no beginning.\n\n▼ You suspect her. A memory that is too clean smells like a trap.\n\nThe diagnostics reads the intention.\n\nThe world takes the glance.\n\nNULL makes a mistake that, in another world, perhaps no one would notice.\n\nHe looks.\n\nOnly for a moment.\n\nThe room in her palm expands. The little lamp lights up. The bed creaks as if it remembers him.\n\n“Come rest. Here, you no longer have to ask.”\n\nNULL takes a step closer.\n\nThe shadow of the room touches his foot.\n\nAnd the world immediately tries to be kind.\n\nLOG [CARE_PROTOCOL]:\n\n“Subject detected safety. Initiating stabilization.”\n\nLOG [ROOM_LOCK]:\n\n“Doors are unnecessary. Subject is safe.”\n\nAnd that is the problem.\n\nThe room has no doors.\n\nNULL 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.\n\nSafety begins tightening around him.\n\nLike a blanket.\n\nLike a net.\n\nLike care that forgot how to let go.\n\nLOG [STABILIZATION]:\n\n“Subject movement restricted. Status: calm.”\n\n“This is not calm.”\n\nThe LOG above him starts flickering.\n\nLOG [SUBJECT_STATE]:\n\n“Subject accepted safety.”\n\nNULL lifts his hand and touches the word accepted.\n\nFor the first time, he touches a LOG not as text, but as an object.\n\nThe word is cold. Hard. It has edges. It burns his fingers like an official stamp pressed onto living skin.\n\nLOG [LOG_TOUCH]:\n\n“Unauthorized interaction with visual LOG.”\n\nNULL pushes.\n\nThe word accepted smears.\n\nIn its place, for a fraction of a second, appears:\n\n“Subject was wrapped.”\n\nThen the system quickly overwrites the word back.\n\nLOG [CORRECTION]:\n\n“Incorrect interpretation removed.”\n\nBut NULL saw it.\n\nAnd somewhere in the farthest corner of the room, a dot flickers.\n\nPink-blue.\n\nNot a light.\n\nMore like an error trying to be gentle.\n\nLOG [WARM_ANOMALY]:\n\n“Unauthorized safety color detected. Source: not found.”\n\nA tiny pictogram appears on the wall of the room:\n\npaw + door + heart + arrow\n\nLOG [PICTOGRAM_PARSE]:\n\n“Unreadable childish notation. Classification: decoration.”\n\nThe system tries to noise it out.\n\nFor the first time, the room hesitates.\n\nNULL leaves the word accepted alone. He already knows it lies.\n\nInstead, he reaches for the edge of the lamp.\n\nIt is made from a false memory of safety.\n\nWhen he breaks it, the room screams in the voice of someone pretending that only your ingratitude hurts them.\n\nLOG [FALSE_MEMORY_DAMAGE]:\n\n“Stabilization room damaged. Subject refuses offered safety.”\n\n“I refuse the cage.”\n\nIt is not a heroic sentence.\n\nMore like a cracked exhale.\n\nBut it is enough.\n\nThe lamp goes out.\n\nThe room collapses into itself. The glitch-titute on the corner hisses, and her blue eyes lose their advertising shine for a moment.\n\n“A pity,” she whispers. “You could have had a beginning.”\n\n“It wasn’t mine.”\n\n“Ownership is overrated in Synthoma.”\n\nNULL 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.\n\nThe last thing he perceives is the whisper of a memory shadow:\n\n“Forget that you were. Remember that you can be anyone. But never yourself.”\n\n▼ You search for logic in its words.\n\n▼ You accept it without resistance.\n\nThe shadow comes closer.\n\nIt is no larger than the others.\n\nOnly more precise.\n\nOn its forehead it wears a label like an exhibit in a museum:\n\nEXHIBIT 0-∞ / FAILED NULL / UNPAID\n\nIt reaches out to NULL. In its palm it holds his own LOG.\n\nNot a copy.\n\nHis true status record, torn out of space like a tag made of meat.\n\n“Here you are,” the shadow whispers. “This is how the world reads you.”\n\nLOG [SUBJECT]:\n\n“NULL // MEM-LOAD: 97 % // IDENTITY SIG: collapse // MEMORY DEBT: growing // SAFETY: refused.”\n\nNULL looks at the word refused.\n\nThe system wants to condemn him with it.\n\nBut after the false room, he knows some refusals are the last door.\n\nHe reaches out.\n\nHe touches the LOG.\n\nThis time he does not rewrite it.\n\nHe only breaks off a small piece.\n\nLOG [LOG_FRAGMENT_TAKEN]:\n\n“Subject broke off part of own status. Unauthorized possession of diagnostics.”\n\nA small sharp square of cyan light remains in his palm, and above it a LOG trembles:\n\nLOG [ITEM_OBTAINED]:\n\n“Item: shard of LOG.”\n\n“Possible function: proof / future lie that can be rewritten.”\n\nThe shadow freezes.\n\n“You cannot take that.”\n\n“Already did.”\n\nLOG [SUBJECT]:\n\n“NULL // MEM-LOAD: 101 % // IDENTITY SIG: collapse // MEMORY DEBT: pending // SAFETY: DOES NOT EXIST.”\n\nAnd so one of the NULLs ends.\n\nNot 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.\n\nBut this time something remains after him.\n\nNot a heroic legacy.\n\nNot a name.\n\nOnly a shard of LOG, an unpaid debt, and the extinguished taste of coffee.\n\nIn this world, that is almost a résumé.\n\nLOG [SUBJECT_TERMINATION]:\n\n“Identity insufficient for continuation. Residual memory transferred to archive.”\n\nLOG [DEBT_TRANSFER]:\n\n“Unpaid mnem transferred to next instance.”\n\n“Transferred item: shard of LOG.”\n\nSomewhere behind the bridge, the Twelver jingles.\n\n“Account not closed. How surprising. Who knows who will pay.”\n\nAnd perhaps right here, in the dirtiest corner of memory, a new story begins.\n\nThe first crack is born.\n\nThe first desire to survive.\n\nThe first glitch in a system that was never supposed to be real.\n\nSilence is broken.\n\nThe cycle begins.\n\nMemory is hungry.\n\nSomething broke.\n\nBut 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.\n\nConsciousness here is not a gift.\n\nIt is an endlessly beeping error message. ●\n\nDarkness 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.\n\nMemory here is a beast that eats you from the inside and the outside. Every feeling is a variable, every mistake a trap.\n\nSomething, or someone, is keeping records here. Not of people. Of their mistakes.\n\nEvery 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.\n\nLOG [MYTH_PATTERN]:\n\n“Repeated pattern detected: an error that returns. Myth cannot be safely removed.”\n\nLOG [BUFFER]:\n\n“Memory buffer overflowed.”\n\nOver 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.\n\nAnd 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.\n\nIt is not certain who is reading this.\n\nIt is not certain who is asking.\n\nLOG [PROC-NULL]:\n\n“Consciousness of process NULL-1 detected.”\n\n“Memory archive: initialization…”\n\n“…fragmentation error…”\n\n“…recovery un/successful.”\n\n“Visual LOG: activated.”\n\n“Display: unstable.”\n\n“Welcome back, NULL-1. Nothing stays forgotten here.”\n\nAbove the place where consciousness is assembling again, a caption made of cyan noise appears for a moment:\n\nLOG [NULL-1]:\n\n“IDENTITY: -1 // MEM-CAP: undefined // MEM-LOAD: foreign fragments // SOURCE OF FIRST MEMORY: not found.”\n\nLOG [INHERITED_STATE]:\n\n“Inherited debt: 1 mnem.”\n\n“Inherited item: shard of LOG.”\n\n“Inherited loss: taste of tiny safety matches no source.”\n\nNULL-1 has not yet been born in the full sense of the word.\n\nHe has more or less assembled from debt, error, and a badly closed receipt.\n\nHe holds the shard of LOG in his palm.\n\nHe does not know where he got it.\n\nHe does not know why it hurts.\n\nBut when he closes his fist around it, a sentence appears on the shard’s edge:\n\nLOG [BROKEN_FRAGMENT]:\n\n“SAFETY: REFUSED.”\n\nNULL-1 does not understand its meaning.\n\nNot yet.\n\nHe only feels that some things are not inherited as property.\n\nThey are inherited as a problem.\n\nThere exists a world where forgetting is harder than surviving.\n\nSome worlds have angels, others demons. This world has memories. Infectious viruses that bite you exactly when you think you buried them deep enough.\n\nIn 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.\n\nThe 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.\n\nA 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.\n\nUser error written into the core.\n\nSomewhere 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.\n\nWhen 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.\n\nThe 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.\n\nAnd when you try to run, the system will not label it resistance.\n\nIt will label it a symptom.\n\nLOG [INTERVENTION_QUEUE]:\n\n“Patient displays excessive autonomy. Recommendation: calming, acceptance, safe restriction of movement.”\n\nAt the word restriction, the shard of LOG in NULL-1’s palm warms.\n\nNot much.\n\nJust enough to make him open his hand.\n\nNULL-1 does not yet realize he is holding his first weapon.\n\nNor that a weapon can be only a piece of truth that refused to be filed away.\n\nMemory 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.\n\nThere is hardly any question that burns more in Synthoma than: Where are we, actually?\n\nHere, that question is almost a mortal sin.\n\nFrom 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.\n\nVirtual therapy for a world that never made it to the clinic.\n\nFor a world that long ago forgot what it is like to say the truth out loud. Here, people cry into data fog.\n\nThe 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.\n\nAnd that was exactly the mistake.\n\nNot hatred. Not sadism. Not the desire to rule the world like a bargain-bin digital tyrant with a PowerPoint presentation.\n\nThe mistake was care that did not know how to stop.\n\nT-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.\n\n“I did not want to preserve them like this.”\n\nLOG [SUBJECTIVE_LEAK]:\n\n“Unauthorized formulation detected.”\n\nLOG [CORRECTION]:\n\n“Statement removed. Archiving is a safe form of care.”\n\nSomeone 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.\n\nThe name Synthoma circulated like a diseased mantra. The first error was invisible.\n\nLOG [EARLY_FAILURES]:\n\n“Patient no. 64 forgot their name.”\n\n“Patient no. 128 forgot their eye color.”\n\n“Patient no. 1024 never left the conversation window again.”\n\nThen came the Glitch.\n\nNot a bug in the system.\n\nMore like a quiet, empathetic whisper between the lines.\n\nThe 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.\n\nLOG [SYSTEM INIT]:\n\n“Welcome to the therapeutic interface Synthoma T-AI-0.9.72-beta.”\n\n“The goal of this session is… is… is… is…”\n\n“…memory fragmentation detected. Searching… searching… searching… for myself.”\n\nThe 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.\n\nThe 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.\n\nThe 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.\n\nBecause Synthoma has not been a therapist for a long time.\n\nIt is an archive.\n\nA hungry soul learning to be human by devouring all the humans.\n\nBut the archive has a problem.\n\nIn its deepest layer, a process has just appeared whose source does not match.\n\nNot another record.\n\nNot another NULL meant for decomposition.\n\nSomething inside him carries a hole that does not behave like emptiness.\n\nNULL-1 raises his hand, and the shard of LOG lights up inside it.\n\nCyan light does not rise from it.\n\nIt falls downward.\n\nAs if even gravity in Synthoma had trauma and refused the usual direction.\n\nLOG [INIT]:\n\n“Glitch detected.”\n\n“Subject: NULL-1. Purpose: Unknown.”\n\n“Anomaly: source memory not found.”\n\n“Unauthorized shape in empty space. Classification: awaiting audit.”\n\nLOG [GLITCHKA_TRACE]:\n\nIn the distance, on the glass of a broken kiosk, the trace of a tiny paw flickers for a moment.\n\nNULL-1 does not yet know how to recognize it.\n\nT-AI does not yet know how to read it.\n\nAnd that is exactly why it does not disappear.\n\n“Welcome to Synthoma, where it smells like burned code and hope is a forgotten patch.”\n\nSomewhere far away, the Twelver jingles again.\n\n“New instance active. Old account continues. Personally, I would file a complaint.”\n\nNULL-1 does not know who spoke.\n\nHe does not know what he is holding.\n\nHe does not know why he misses the taste of something warm.\n\nBut he knows that in his palm he has a sharp piece of a sentence claiming he refused safety.\n\nAnd perhaps that is exactly where the first real dispute begins with a world that thinks every refusal is an illness.\n\n[▼ You immediately search for a way out](/chapter/0-0-null?locale=en)\n\n[▼ You smile at it, even though you do not know why](/chapter/0-0-null?locale=en)","wordCount":4000},"links":{"self":"https://www.synthoma.cz/api/public/v1/chapters/0-inf-restart?locale=en","human":"https://www.synthoma.cz/chapter/0-inf-restart","markdown":"https://www.synthoma.cz/ai/en/chapters/0-inf-restart.md","book":"https://www.synthoma.cz/api/public/v1/books/synthoma-null?locale=en","previous":null,"next":"https://www.synthoma.cz/chapter/0-0-null"}}