Moon swollen and cracked like an old broadcast dish, bleeding light over the dead slick of a city built from denial. The wraith stood where roads once had names, shoulders quaking with laughter that broke like static down a wire, watching the towers scream in flame. Spires curled inward like claws. Firelight pulsed behind shattered windows, strobing ruin into the night like a dying machine. No message, no rebellion—just the exquisite high of watching a system collapse under the weight of its own syntax. It wasn’t vengeance. It was art.
