The sky wasn’t supposed to look like that—molten chalk spirals bleeding into the ozone like some apocalyptic finger painting done by a lunatic with a grudge against god. The city baked in its glow, towers twitching like nervous teeth in a neon jaw, as he stood there—the Wraith, the old bastard cloaked in oil-slick shadows, grinning with those dead eyes that swore they'd seen the first sin. They said the sun cracked open when he whispered something filthy into the atmosphere, some twisted prayer that warped the light itself. Now he watches his masterpiece—a sunset laced with chemical madness, bleeding over the skyline like a crime scene—and you can tell, by that reptilian curl of his lip, he did it just to see what it would feel like.
