illphated
In the year 2147, the city of Lysantium pulsed like a living organism—its chrome veins alive with current, its breath thick with digital fog. Neon bled into the sky, and even the stars seemed outshined by the towers of synthetic glass and pixel light.
They said the skies had been empty for centuries—God had long left, angels were myths, and the heavens were silent.
But one night, amidst the rain and static, something descended.
She hovered above the city, not with engines or drones, but with gravity-defying grace. Wings spun from constellations arched behind her like solar flares—light woven into feathers, feathers into flame. Her form was faceless, yet every onlooker saw the same thing: the truth they feared most.
Security AIs flagged her presence instantly, but no ordinance locked onto her. Missiles refused to fire. Satellites blinked out. Every screen in Lysantium froze and broadcast a single image: her silhouette against the violet-streaked sky.
They called her The Watcher.
Below, sinners and saints alike fell to their knees—not from belief, but because something ancient stirred in their synthetic bones. A forgotten awe. Reverence beyond religion.
The Watcher raised a hand. Her fingers shimmered like plasma and thunder. Across the skyline, the signal changed. Surveillance shut down. Weapons powered off. The corporate towers flickered, then went black.
She spoke no words. But her presence whispered something primal:
“You were never alone.”
And then, in a final burst of godrays—pink, blue, and gold—she vanished.
Some say she returned to the stars. Others say she is still there, cloaked in light, watching.
But Lysantium changed that night. The neon didn’t just glow—it hoped.