He sits there—half machine, half dream deferred—beneath a piss-yellow moon like it’s some kind of divine spotlight on failure, clutching that blood-red triangle like it owes him something, like maybe if he prays hard enough through cracked knuckles and crypto chatroom mantras, the algorithm will save him. The rain’s not even real, just pixels pretending to be pain, but he leans into it anyway, metal knees sunk in synthetic mud, staring dead-eyed into the glitching night, still waiting for the pump that never comes.
