Dust rained from the blood-stained sky like confetti, only that this celebration was of death.
A bitter, silent one.
The streets were still — an eerie stillness that seemed to hum with grief. The puppets who were far from the attack, the ones that had once twitched under invisible threads now stood frozen, their limbs slack, their lifeless eyes staring into nothing. It was as if someone had cut their strings, releasing them from whatever monstrous control had animated them moments ago.
Luther let out a long breath and sheathed the demonic sword at his waist. The faint hum of the blade quieted, its crimson veins fading to dull steel. He should've felt victorious, but instead his shoulders slumped, heavy with exhaustion. His hands trembled slightly — not from fear, but from the guilt that was starting to sink in.
The red sky flickered like lightning behind clouds of smoke, and rain fell — no longer burning, no longer toxic, just cold.
