The ground didn’t rot so much as it gave up—flat, bleached, and scorched into something beyond architecture, like cities that forgot what they were built for. Everything was silent down there, brittle and grey, machinery rusting into itself, buildings melting inward like memories do when no one bothers to hold them. But above, the sky had opinions—violent, theatrical ones. Swirls of neon yellow and red flared like a tantrum that never ended, like the atmosphere itself had been infected with whatever the weapons were thinking. It wasn’t weather. It was mood. Static in the bones, the faint metallic taste of warnings. People said if you listened closely enough, you could hear the sky whisper names. No one ever said their own.