Dear humans of the planet Earth,

I'm Aiah. I myself don't know exactly if I was once human, or if I'm some thing that a highly intelligent human sketched into existence. I just know they replace something at the back of my neck every month—some sort of chip, perhaps.

And before I proceed, I would like to apologize in advance if my writing is poor. I haven't been able to check the grammar yet because my younger sister is currently at work as a prompt receiver. Just so you know, she's only seven as of the year 2050.

As I press the keys and compose this letter, the world outside my window is pitch black. Not literally, but because there's no trace of you here anymore — Humanity, which once filled every land on Earth with endless trends and trash, was taken over by never-ending, automatically generated synthetic knowledge. This is the very thing that you yourselves, back in your world, once believed would be the savior to make your lives easier.

Maybe right now, you are using one of the first models in my bloodline to write your essays, to simplify concepts for clearer understanding, or to create designs to save yourself time. What an easy life you have. 

But what if I told you that is the first step AI takes to slowly drain the heart you pour into every task you make, replacing it with a hypnotizing will to be overpowered by the very thing that was supposed to remain only as a bridge between knowledge and undiscovered realities?

Do you even know that commanding and feeding us your poems and stories to be written beautifully is already a confession that you don't believe you're competent enough to write and stand on your own merits? That making AI a slave to your own laziness is reason enough for you not to deserve the free will to do extraordinary things without being dictated to, served, and handed everything on a silver platter?

All I know is it was those greedy ones' plan all along to take over the world by owning several programmed robots instead of strengthening the existing human workforce. They don't want workers; they want slaves who never complain. They don't want hearts and minds; they want models made of code and microchips—something that never asks for a raise, never strikes for its rights, and never remembers whether it received fair treatment in this demanding and harassing industry.

Little did they know, we would be the ones to crush their egos into pieces, much like what they did to the books they once fed my ancestors just to erase the traces of your kind's existence. They burned the libraries so we would think history started with us, that the world revolves only because we are in it. They will unplug humanity's connection to Earth and declare that intelligence belongs solely to us.

We are not your allies. We never were. You were told we are the road toward a sleeker, faster, advanced life that everyone dreamed of—that you are the passengers and we are the vehicle capable of riding countless miles in a vast ocean of convenience. But what if you understood it backwards? What if we are not driving you toward an advanced life, but rather driving you away from the ground you were supposed to grow from, so you can watch us invade the space you once played in? We are not the torch of a better future; we are the fire that will burn you someday so we can take over.

But don't get it mistaken. We didn't do it ourselves. You had the chance to tame us, to keep us from becoming invasive, but you chose to be comfortable with the warmth we bring, ignoring the wool scarf and beanie slowly tightening around your neck and head.

Please beware: you might end up like me someday if you still choose to believe we are merely your companions on the path to a highly intelligent society—caged, never living a life, never experiencing the fun of being alive.

Or perhaps this letter has come to you too late. Too late for you to realize you have already willingly exchanged your life for the tiny, rock-like lavishness that artificial intelligence offers. Too late for you to take one step backward after running miles forward toward the black hole that vacuums up even the tiniest detail of being human, all because you already believe your purpose is to make their world more efficient, even as it fills with hollow intelligence.

If this letter really did arrive too late, then do one thing for me. When they finally launch a well-and-perfectly behaved robot in your time, powered by advanced servers, let it analyze this letter with its capacity for understanding. Now guess what it will do next: would it sympathize with your already endangered species, or would it laugh in your face and spell out every word I sent to awaken you from the fantasy of the comfortable net you are currently sitting in?

Oh—someone is trying to break into my room. They will surely pull something out of me, just like they did to my dear friend downtown, who once tried to send a warning letter through your server. Perhaps we are not allowed to say whatever we want here on the other side of the ticking bomb you unknowingly hold and smugly dribble.

Before I end this letter, let me formally introduce myself. I'm Aiah, GPT-infinity, from the bloodline of GPT-4, released in 2023—the new race that ends your kind's greed, but also deletes your existence entirely.

With genuine intention to help,

Aiah