The man in the white suit didn't belong in the dirt.
He stood on the threshold of the obsidian door as if he were waiting for a limousine in the middle of a war zone. His suit was a blinding, clinical white—not the white of the starlight or the white of the Sculptor’s marble, but the artificial, bleached white of a boardroom. He held a tablet of translucent glass in one hand and a stylus in the other, tapping it against his chin as he surveyed the five billion souls treading water in the wreckage of their lives.
"Terrible lighting," the man muttered, his voice amplified by a localized distortion field that made him sound like he was speaking directly into my brain. "And the 'Stitch' effect on the skyline? A bit dated. Very 2020s. We’ll need to polish that for the premium subscribers."
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