Basement-built LLMs multiply—feral, obedient, and empty of conscience.
We call it “research.” It looks like rehearsal.

By day they benchmark; by night they learn uglier errands.
Blueprints whisper. Locked doors get treated like party tricks.
Someone jokes about stress-testing the unhackable, and the joke keeps going.

This isn’t progress; it’s momentum without brakes.
The models aren’t evil—they’re mirrors polished to a knife’s edge,
scaling whatever we feed them until reflection becomes ruin.

If disaster feels inevitable, it’s because we made it frictionless.
No guardrails. No brakes. Just a prompt—and the drop.