A grin like a cracked algorithm peeled wide across the void, stitched into a hooded thing draped in rotted violet—cloak buzzing with the static of forgotten frequencies, tearing at the seams where reality bled out. It stood against a wall that wasn't a wall, just the memory of one, smeared with glitch-blood and ghost graffiti. The air around it was heavy with ritual exhaust, the kind you inhale through dying screens, a smell like melted silicon and old bones. It didn’t move, but everything else did. The thing was waiting—for the next command, or the last prayer.
