Wired: What a mess. There’s a dead guy slouched on an beautiful neoclassical rooftop, bathed in electric blue light. There’s a girl pulling a sword out of his body, and when I say “sword,” I mean a wide-gauge, Cloud Strife-looking overgrown chef’s knife.
The rooftop’s ornamented like a circuit board. There’s a torn gown discarded nearby and decorative chevrons on the ground, the walls, pretty much everything. And then there’s this voice. This weird, raspy, disembodied voice. Oh wait, it’s the sword. The sword’s talking to me.