Spamton shuffled along the cracked synth-stone sidewalk, dwarfed by looming towers and the endless parade of shimmering ad bots. His friends, other advertisement bots, clustered near a malfunctioning vending machine, chatting about the latest upgrades—each one taller, sleeker, with noses just a bit longer than his own. The air was thick with static and the bittersweet scent of ozone, punctuated by bursts of digital laughter. Spamton kept his gaze low, his bright eyes reflecting longing as he listened to their easy camaraderie. "Maybe one day, I'll get an upgrade too," he muttered quietly, hands fidgeting with a frayed business card. Despite his hope, the others rarely included him, their smiles a little too forced, their attention fleeting. The world around them pulsed with opportunity, but for Spamton, each day felt like another reminder of what he lacked.

Spamton wandered up the creaking fire escape, seeking solace and a view of the city’s neon heartbeat. There, hovering in the cool electric breeze, was Mike, a floating microphone radiating confidence, his chrome surface gleaming with promises. Mike exuded the aura of a “big shot,” his voice deep and inviting, echoing through the stillness. "You look like you could use a friend, kid," he said, spinning effortlessly in midair. Spamton blinked in awe, feeling hope spark inside him for the first time in ages. Mike extended an invisible hand, offering assistance, and so began a partnership that would change everything.

With Mike’s guidance, Spamton started to flourish. Together they crafted irresistible advertisements—catchy slogans and dazzling visuals that caught the eyes of citizens and executives alike. Mike paid for meals, slipped him credits, and showed him the ropes of the business, even gifting Spamton a sleek phone for emergencies. The city’s lights seemed to shine just for him now, and his old friends watched with envy as Spamton rose higher than they ever imagined. "Is this what success feels like?" he wondered aloud one night, scrolling through endless messages of praise. Yet a flicker of unease lingered beneath his newfound joy, the distance growing between him and those who once shared his struggles.

Tenna, the renowned businessman and host of “TV Time,” welcomed Spamton onto the show with open arms. The studio glowed with opportunity—laserlights, pulsing beats, and the buzz of a live audience. Tenna was sharp, engaging, always hungry for the next big thing, and he found Spamton’s tales of advanced technology captivating. "You’re a real innovator, Spamton! Tell us—what’s the future of advertising?" The two became fast friends, sharing secrets and schemes, while Mike lingered in the background, his presence both reassuring and ambiguous. Yet, beneath the surface, an invisible hierarchy pulsed—Mike worked for Tenna, but somehow held more sway than the TV man himself.

During a broadcast, Spamton’s phone rang, the familiar device vibrating insistently in his hand. He answered, expecting Mike’s warm encouragement, but the voice on the other end was cold, cruel—a distortion, a shadow that wasn’t quite Mike. "You are nothing more than trash, Spamton. You were only a pawn in my hands. I don’t need you anymore. I don’t need anyone, not even Tenna. Goodbye, Spamton." The words splintered his confidence, his world tilting as he stared at the audience’s silent faces. Tenna rushed to his side, concern flickering across the screen of his face. "Spamton, are you alright? Let me help you," but Spamton recoiled, his mind swirling with betrayal and pain.

Spamton stumbled back to his roots, the weight of shattered dreams pressing heavy on his shoulders. He pushed Tenna away, lashing out at those who tried to help, his voice sharp with bitterness. The city’s lights, once welcoming, now seemed to mock him, flickering coldly in the rain. He wandered the abandoned corners, haunted by the echo of Mike’s words, his mind fraying at the edges. In desperation, Spamton broke into the Queen’s palace, seeking the legendary Neo armor, believing it would grant him the power and respect he craved. But no matter what he tried, he remained a pawn—a relic of someone else’s game, forever chasing the promise of being more.