The air on the red shore was a dead, silent thing. The screams had faded, the chaos had subsided, leaving only the tableau of a devastating, one-sided slaughter. Kenjiro stood amidst the wreckage of his hopes, a lone, breathing figure in a field of ghosts, his grief a physical weight that threatened to crush his very soul. Before him, a nightmare given form, a broken god from a broken reality, stood ready to deliver the final, killing blow to a world that was already dead.
A voice, deep and familiar, a rumbling echo of pure, unadulterated rage, reverberated not in the air, but in the silent, shattered space of his own mind. It was his shadow.
"Let's go," it commanded, the words a surge of raw, defiant power that jolted Kenjiro from his grief-stricken paralysis. "We can do this. We are the monster. We are getting out of jail."
