The scene unfolded in a riot of color, a fever dream of neon hues that bled together in stark, jarring contrasts—shocking pinks, acid greens, and electric blues. The crowd below, bathed in this surreal glow, swayed and writhed like one colossal, living organism. It was as if the very city had come alive, its heart beating to the relentless pulse of the music that roared from unseen speakers, a rhythm so intense it seemed to vibrate the very air. Above them all, the Iron Hand's spectral image loomed, his eyes like hypnotic spirals, pulling the revelers into a state of delirious submission.
The banners of PHA₦TA5IA hung like garish streaks of defiance, their colors harsh and unnatural against the sky, casting strange, jagged shadows over the jubilant crowd. Those who danced below were caught in the thrall of the lights, their bodies moving with a frenetic energy that bordered on madness. Hands reached skyward, fingers grasping for something just beyond their reach, as if they could touch the elusive promise of freedom the new regime offered. But beneath the surface of this wild celebration, there was something darker—a simmering tension, a silent scream that went unheard beneath the cacophony of electronic beats and the roar of the crowd’s ecstatic cheers.
For amidst the euphoria, there were eyes that did not dance, faces that were twisted not in joy but in something far colder, more desperate. These were the souls who saw the Iron Hand’s promises for what they truly were—lies dressed in the seductive colors of PHA₦TA5IA’s neon lights. They were prisoners in their own city, bound not by chains but by the blinding allure of this vibrant, synthetic paradise. The confetti fell like ashes, and in the harsh light, every burst of color became a glaring reminder of the cage they were now trapped in. The streets pulsed with life, yet the air was thick with the scent of decay, the rotten core beneath PHA₦TA5IA's dazzling facade beginning to show through its cracks.
