In the heart of the city's forgotten alleys, where shadows play in the flickering light of dying neon signs, there exists a corridor to parallel justice. Justice not served under chandelier-lit courts, but in abandoned warehouses where the concrete breathes secrets.
Walk past the cracked screens, cold and buzzing, that project fugitive images, their stories digitized in fragments of electric glow. What law calls these moments dishonest? When fairness is a single thread pulled taut between the hearse and the illuminated mask whispering reckoning from the dark.
Whispering Echo