Thread by @CarliFrueh

What if the rebellion you’re fighting in… was never yours to begin with?

In the vivid -drenched shadows of Las Vegas, beneath an impossible aurora, one former X firebrand stares into the abyss—and the abyss stares back with an algorithm’s cold smile.

“Controlled Rebellion” by Carli Frueh rips the mask off the machine.

Social media doesn’t just host outrage—it farms it.
Your rage? Monetized.
Your revolution? Scripted.
Your heroes? Sometimes uploaded, not born.

From million-impression threads that fed the beast to waking up inside the Construct itself, this is the story of a soul who learned the deadliest rebellion isn’t the one that trends… it’s the one that slips the leash entirely.

Chapter 1 excerpt (thread reader link below) will make your skin crawl with recognition.

Ready to burn the script?

Grab “Controlled Rebellion”: From the Anomaly In the Construct series now and meet the architects pulling your strings.

The ember is lit.
Your move.

Controlled Rebellion: From the Anomaly In the Construct series

@carlifrueh
#ControlledRebellion #AnomalyInTheConstruct #WakeUp #DystopianFiction #SpiritualAwakening #MatrixRebellion #bookboosta.co/d/2gAgVaE

CONTROLLED REBELLION By CARLI FRUEH
📖Excerpts
Chapter 1
Embers of Order, Defiant in the Dark

In the shadowed corridors of the Construct, reality doesn’t merely bend—it fractures, splintering beneath the deft, invisible hands of architects who sculpt existence like

molten glass. The walls, cold and unyielding, gleam with an obsidian sheen, their surfaces streaked with veins of faint, phosphorescent light, pale tendrils that flicker and pulse like the last gasps of a dying star, casting fleeting ghosts across the stone.

Each step echoes softly, the sound swallowed by an oppressive vastness, as if the air itself conspires to smother dissent before it can take root. The atmosphere hangs heavy, thick with the metallic tang of ozone and the ceaseless whisper of machinery—a living pulse that

reverberates through the rock, a heartbeat of order that seems to inhale the defiance it so meticulously cradles. Here, in this labyrinth where control masquerades as freedom, I feel the weight of unseen eyes, their gaze a constant pressure against my skin, the architects’

vigilance woven into the very marrow of this place.

The Construct is no mere prison — it’s a cathedral of control, its spires piercing the fabric of reality, its foundations sunk deep into the bones of a world remade. The corridors twist and coil like the innards of some vast

beast, each turn a mirror of the last, a maze crafted to disorient and devour. The walls shimmer with a slick, unnatural sheen, as if coated in the sweat of a nightmare, their surfaces alive with the hum of unseen gears grinding beneath.

The air tastes of iron and ash, a bitter tang that lingers on the tongue, a reminder that every breath here is borrowed, every thought surveilled. And yet, within this suffocating embrace, a spark flickers—not a reckless inferno, but an ember carved with surgical intent,

its glow a defiant hymn sung in whispers against the dark. It is tended by shadows who know a truth sharper than shattered glass: rebellion is most lethal when it dons the mask of compliance, when it weaves itself into the system’s tapestry only to unravel it thread

by silken thread.

In 2025, this dance of defiance finds its echo beyond the Construct’s walls, spilling into the digital sprawl of social media platforms—those glittering coliseums where humanity’s spirit is both forged and fettered. Here, the architects’ hands stretch further,

their fingers threading chaos into order with a precision that chills the blood. Social media no longer merely hosts rebellion; it breeds it, cultivating controlled uprisings like a farmer tending crops, each sprout pruned to serve the harvest. These platforms — like X, with its

ceaseless pulse of outrage, and others lurking in its shadow—have become puppet masters, their algorithms humming a siren song that lures users into battles they believe are their own. But the wars are staged, the banners pre-sewn, the cries of dissent a chorus rehearsed

in the dark.

Why orchestrate such a masquerade? The reasons glitter like shards of broken glass scattered across a midnight floor, each catching the light with its own treacherous gleam. The Hunger of the swarm, rebellion fuels engagement, a feast for the platforms’

insatiable maw. Users, ravenous for purpose, plunge into the fray, their fingers weaving threads of fury and fervor, their every clash a coin dropped into the architects’ purse. The more they fight, the tighter they’re bound, their outrage a tether to the screen,

their passion a currency mined through ads and analytics. The mapping of the mind, each uprising is a canvas, painted with the data of dissent. The platforms sip from this well, charting every fracture, every spark—knowing who rages, why, and how fiercely.

This harvest of shadows sharpens their grip, a knowledge sold to unseen bidders who wield it like a lash across the world’s spine.

By cradling rebellion, they steer its reins. Voices that serve their ends rise like phoenixes from the ash, while others are

buried beneath silence’s weight. The tide of will bends to their whim, a controlled storm that washes away threats and shores up their dominion.

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