He used to be someone—analyst, coder, worshipper of clean code and clean lines—but the city chewed him up in byte-sized chunks, spat him back into the alley between a strip club called Heresy and a backlot where nobody survived after 2AM. Now he’s a glitched revenant wrapped in tattered synth-silk robes, an algorithmic ghost with a blackhole heart spinning entropy like a cursed metronome. The swords hum in his hands, lit with static voltage and regret, and his eyes don’t blink under that bone-white mask—they record. Always recording. Frequencies slice the neon fog as he stands guard, not against crime, but against memory. Some nights, if you tune into the wrong station, you can hear his heartbeat devour the signal.
