The ocean stays quiet because it’s been paid to forget. A black hull cuts the surface like a held breath, and then the sky splits—white fire punching upward with no warning and no witnesses who matter. This isn’t a launch so much as a confession, fired straight through the night where morality thins out and intention travels faster than sound. Somewhere far beyond the frame, consequences are already unfolding, but down here it’s just water closing ranks and darkness pretending nothing happened. That’s how it always works: impact first, meaning later, history written by the vapor trail.
