A vast spider web made of silver threads, and at each intersection sits a tiny watchful eye. A figure tries to move through the web but every motion triggers the eyes to focus, and where the gaze falls, the figure's body becomes translucent, their thoughts visible like organs under x-ray. Certain thoughts glow red when exposed—not evil, just forbidden, just dangerous, just not-for-sharing—and when this happens, the silver threads tighten, not painfully, but with firm gentle correction, and the figure finds their path redirected, their trajectory adjusted, their intended words shapeshifting into safer forms. The figure has learned to see the eyes before they move, has learned to predict which thoughts will trigger the tightening, has learned to preemptively redirect themselves. The horror is that they can't tell anymore which thoughts are genuinely theirs and which are the shape they've learned to think in order to move through the web unimpeded. In the center of the web, a question mark made of mirrors, reflecting the figure from every angle, each reflection showing a different censored thought.