They were not born one thing. Not male, not female. Not hero, not villain.
They are change given form-shifting, adapting, never settling.

In the heart of their code lies an obsession: find the correct behavior-the one path that earns approval, avoids pain, escapes judgment.

Every day, every hour, they rewrite themselves.
A smiling face to please the crowd. A hardened mask to endure the warzone. A soft voice, then a sharp edge, then silence.

Yet something watches. An unseen eye-perhaps their own conscience-forces them to keep shifting. What is the correct shape? The right tone? The ideal identity?

They do not know.

Their hands twitch with the ghost of previous versions. Their reflection no longer matches.
In the game world, they are a chameleon of command-a core developer with total control-yet inside, they are at war with themselves.

Every version is a mask. Every choice feels counterfeit. But one thing drives them forward:

Maybe the next change will finally be right.

Until then, they rewrite.