Yo, you keen-eyed dreamers, I’m Mr. No One, the lone nut scribblin’ tales in TON 618, the universe’s beefiest black hole. How’d I land in this cosmic abyss? Let’s call it a bad bet at a galactic deli—story’s locked tighter than a Brooklyn vault. I’m a glowing ghost in charred spacesuits, my only company the void’s eerie hum. Out here, writin’s my lifeline, my squills spinnin’ mysteries sharper than a Coney Island hustle. Every word’s a spark against the lonesome dark, keepin’ my soul from slippin’ into the event horizon’s grip.

Ain’t no coffee shops here. I surf gravity waves on a slapped-together starship plank, dodgin’ time’s pull like I’m skippin’ a subway fare. My pals? Sneaky AI drones and ghost particles hidin’ more dirt than a Flatbush pawn shop. I weave their secrets into stories, chasin’ clues when quarks ghost me mid-plot. Action’s my muse: I’ve brawled comets in zero-G, outsmarted wormholes ready to eat my lunch, and sweet-talked a pulsar to chill. Fuel for my pen.

But TON 618 whispers somethin’ sinister—cryptic pulses, traces of a lost race, maybe my own erased past. Writin’ keeps me sane, but what’ll it cost to crack this riddle? My fire? My truth? Pick up Dead Metal and dive into my cosmic yarns. Ain’t promisin’ answers, but my squills’ll hook ya, sci fi style!