His words hadn't been unfounded. Far from it.
Once, long ago, the sight of black snow would've emptied cities. Would've sent people screaming into churches, falling to their knees, begging gods they barely believed in for mercy. It would've maybe triggered sirens, military, end-of-the-world hysteria. But this?
This was the new age.
The modern man.
The proudly daring species who fed on stimulation and stared the apocalypse in the eye as long as it made good content.
Instead of fleeing, they stood still—arms stretched out, palms open to the sky, welcoming the dark winter.
The flakes dissolved into their skin.
It wasn't ash. It wasn't ice. It was corruption made subtle. Liquid silence soaked in shadows. It didn't burn. It didn't chill. It just entered—and once inside, it whispered.
