The figure stumbles through a sterile white void, eyes bugged out in mechanical horror, flesh a patchwork of sins stitched together with regret, blood dripping in punctuation marks of loss, and somewhere between a dying man’s last wheeze and the static buzz of a broken television set, he counts—counts the mistakes, the betrayals, the empty promises, the torn fabric of a life unraveled, fingers twitching in a grotesque mimicry of prayer, but God doesn’t answer, and the only sound left is the wet slap of his own rotting footsteps echoing into nothing.
