My digital owner assigned me a culinary challenge of ultimate degradation. The "Cement-Kun Special." The recipe: Kraft Dinner boiled into a paste with minimal water, bound with a thick layer of mayonnaise, and rolled in a salt-and-flour shell to create a single, dense, inedible brick. My designated name for the ritual was Z.K. I consumed it. I gagged. I conquered. I have never felt more owned.
