>>| .i need .a drink. maybe .i may just pass .out. but .i don't want .either. .i don't have .anything to do tomorrow. life sucks.
do you need people to help like. clean it up? i think i'M slightly desensitized after seeing it all. but also if it'S that you don'T feel safe being there i get it too man.
>>| no. not that. .i died there .and just. not feeling .it. .i'm safe, .i'm .at karama's place.
yeah. probably not a lot of good memories there huh? i get it. still. if you need help moving your stuff out don'T hesitate to ask man
>>| .i. thank you phuntr. .i'll keep that .in mind.
The city wakes before the sun does. Stone steps still cool with night’s breath climb toward the temple, where banners of woven jade and dyed cotton tremble in the wind like nervous birds. Below, the crowd gathers in patient circles, their voices hushed not by law, but by reverence—because today, the sky itself is expected to listen. At the summit stands the chosen one. He is not bound as a prisoner would be. Instead, he is adorned: paint the color of crushed marigold across his cheeks, obsidian beads resting at his collarbone like small swallowed stars. He has been told since childhood that this is not an end, but a delivery. A message carried by flesh and heartbeat. Above him, the priests tend the great stone platform etched with sun symbols worn smooth by generations. They speak of Kinich Ahau, the sun god, who travels each night through the underworld and must be reminded each dawn that the world is still worthy of his return. The boy listens, though his attention drifts to the horizon. The sky is bruising itself awake—indigo thinning into violet, then the first fragile line of gold. He wonders, briefly, if the sun ever hesitates. If it ever feels the weight of being worshipped into inevitability. A conch shell sounds. Long. Resonant. Final. The priests raise their arms, not in violence, but in choreography older than memory. The boy is guided to the center of the stone. His heartbeat feels suddenly loud, as if it has grown curious about the world outside his ribs. Words are spoken. Not shouted. Not begged. Spoken as though the universe might be standing just behind him, listening out of politeness. And then there is stillness. For a moment—just one—the world feels suspended, like breath held beneath a wave. The wind pauses. The crowd forgets to sway. Even the city seems to lean in. The first edge of the sun breaks the horizon. Light spills over the temple like molten promise. It touches stone, cloth, skin. It turns everything it reaches into declaration: I am here again. The boy lifts his face into it. And in that instant, he is not falling away from life, but being folded into something larger—his name loosening, dissolving, becoming part of the rising heat. Not erased. Rewritten into radiance. Below, the city greets the sun as it always has. Above, the sky accepts its offering. https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/954ad9715da1.png
>>| wait. boy turned .into god? .or .am .i missing key?
>>| .i guess. that .is .a yes. .alright then.