The city never slept. Neon rivers pulsed across glass towers, and invisible currents of data stitched billions of lives into a single, humming web. To most, it was progress. To the hungry, it was power.

Arya, a broker of algorithms, saw the Matrix not as one world but as a thousand. He traded in illusions: one version of truth for the poor, another for the rich, ten more for the rulers. He boasted that reality itself bent at his fingertips. “Why settle for one truth,” he laughed, “when you can own a thousand?”

But in the cracks of the city lived Raghu, who had begun to see differently. One night, staring at the endless scroll of screens, Raghus breath slowed. The patterns of the code shifted. The streams of numbers, the flashing images, even the frantic voices of the world—all dissolved into a single rhythm, like one cosmic heartbeat.

In that moment Raghu understood: all the layers, all the stories, all the wars for power—were still Māyā. Grand, multidimensional, intoxicating—but still shadow.

A voice rose within:
“Not this, not this… beyond all this, I remain.”

Raghu stepped into the streets. The noise no longer clung. The billboards flickered, the power-games roared on, yet their weight was gone. For where others saw ten thousand fractured realities, Raghu saw only One.

In the labyrinth of code and illusion,
the hungry chase power across infinite screens,
stacking worlds upon worlds,
calling their empire “reality.”

But the one who wakes
sees the lattice of Māyā dissolve,
accepts the truth of Oneness,
and with a single breath
breaks the prism back into pure light:
I am That.

And as the illusion broke like glass returning to pure light, Raghu whispered:
“Aham Brahmāsmi… I am That.”