SWARTHOS

The heat rising off the concrete still carries that electric ozone tang from yesterday’s storm. I’m standing here in the half-shadow of another anonymous building, green beanie low, lenses tinted against both the sun and the cameras that never sleep.

The city pulses behind me like a machine that’s learned how to breathe, neon bleeding into smog, sirens harmonizing with distant basslines, every surface reflecting another version of me I might not recognize tomorrow. A Scanner Darkly meets cyberpunk. That’s the only way to describe the frequency I’m tuned to right now. Paranoia and revelation all at once. The Eye on my chest isn’t just decoration anymore; it feels like a warning label and a mission statement. Watch. Record. Question everything, especially the man staring back in the mirror.

I don’t know if I’m the undercover agent, the burnout, or just another ghost drifting through the sprawl, but the mask feels thinner every day. Stay frosty out there. The machine is always listening.

• Swarthos