A masked figure stands in a cathedral of silence, its stained-glass windows shattered — yet the shards hover mid-air, frozen just before they fall. Their mouth is sealed by golden thread, stitched tight by unseen hands, each stitch etched with ancient symbols that glow and twitch. Behind them, a wall of mirrors reflects only static or reshapes them into strangers. Overhead, a massive bell swings endlessly, yet makes no sound. Around their feet, ink pools from invisible wounds, forming words that splinter and melt before they can be read. On the horizon: a sunrise trying to rise, held back by lawless scaffolding of redacted light.