The Violet Glitch

  The sky over the Spire didn't belong to nature. It was a bruised, chemical purple, choked by the rhythmic pulsing of the overhead conduits—massive, brass-clad veins that hummed with the sound of a million stolen heartbeats. In this world, you didn’t just pay for light with coin; you paid with Aether.

  Zoid moved through the lower sectors like a neon ghost. He stood out like a fresh wound against the soot-stained brass and copper of the slums, clad in an oversized, vibrant hot pink pullover hoodie. The fabric was thick and baggy, drowning his frame and masking the fact that beneath the cotton, he was shredded—his muscles wired tight like the very pistons that powered the city. He kept the hood pulled up just enough to hold his long wavy metallic hair in place, though the bangs still cascaded forward like a shimmering curtain.

  It was his primary defense, a physical barrier between himself and a world that demanded more than he could give. When he looked down at the metal-grate sidewalk, the strands obscured his eyes. He preferred it that way.

  "Hey! It’s the Golden Boy!"

  A small voice cracked through the hiss of a nearby steam-vent. Zoid stopped, his head tilting just enough for his hair to shift, like tides in a silver ocean.

  A group of children, their faces smeared with coal-dust and grease, were huddled around a broken automaton toy—a clunky brass spider that had lost three of its legs. They lived in the "Crawl-Spaces," the narrow gaps between the massive factory walls where the Aether-pipes ran hot enough to keep them from freezing at night.

  Zoid felt the familiar, heavy knot of social anxiety tighten in his chest. His first instinct was to pull his hood lower and vanish, but the "Golden Boy" persona—the mask he’d built to survive—took over.

  "Hey, guys," Zoid said, his voice a bit higher than he wanted. He stepped toward them, his hands buried deep in the front pouch of his pink hoodie.

  "It won't spin, Zoid!" a young girl cried, holding up the spider. "The spark-core is dark."

  Zoid knelt, the fabric of his hoodie bunching around his knees. He was careful to keep his lips pulled tight, hiding the sharp, animalistic fangs that sat in his jaw. He was pathologically self-conscious about them; to him, they were a mark of the "Stray" he was—an unregistered freak.

  He took the toy. His fingers were long and calloused, moving with a precision that betrayed his nervous energy. He could feel the toy was cold—the Aether had been bled out of it by the ambient "leaks" in the district.

  "Just a... a clogged valve," Zoid lied gently.

  He focused. Deep in his marrow, his royal purple Aether hummed. He didn't want to use his power—every time he did, he felt a bit of his density slip away—but he couldn't stand the look in the girl's eyes. He let a microscopic spark of purple energy dance at his fingertip, just enough to jump-start the toy’s core.

  The spider whirred to life, its brass legs clicking against the metal grate. The kids cheered, and for a moment, Zoid’s practiced grin felt almost real.

  "Thanks, Zoid! You're the best!"

  "S-sure. Just... don't let the Enforcers see it," Zoid stammered, standing up quickly.

  As he walked away, the smile died. His right hand tightened inside his hoodie's pouch, his fingers white-knuckled around a heavy set of brass knuckles.

  Stay solid, he hissed internally, his pulse thumping against his fangs. Stay real. Don’t let the floor go soft.

  He continued his walk, passing the Siphon Stations where the lines were growing longer. The "Gloom" shift was starting, and the city was getting hungry. He watched an Enforcer in pressurized leather armor shove a man toward a tapping-booth. The man was "Drain-Sick," his skin translucent and grey, but the city didn't care. It needed Aether to keep the holographic ads in the Upper Spire glowing.

  Zoid felt a sickening surge of guilt. He was an Unregistered Stray—a "Ghost-Battery" full of high-grade, royal purple Aether. He was healthy, he was strong, and he was hiding it all under a hot pink hoodie while the people he loved were being bled dry.

  He reached a corner where a massive, rusted bronze statue of a long-dead industrialist stood. A group of older laborers were slumped at its base, sharing a single vial of diluted blue Aether just to find the strength to walk home.

  "Looking bright today, Zoid!" one of them called out, his eyes milky with Aether-starvation. "That hoodie gets brighter every week!"

  Zoid offered a quick, closed-mouth wave, his face flushing a deep crimson. "J-just... easier to see in the smog, Murph."

  "We're glad you're around, kid. Kept those Lechers off my block last night. We don't forget that."

  Zoid’s heart hammered. He hated the recognition. Every time they acknowledged him as a hero, the pressure to be that hero threatened to shatter him. He wasn't a hero; he was a broken man who was one panic attack away from phasing through the sidewalk and falling into the industrial abyss below.

  He ducked his head, his silver hair shielding his royal purple eyes as they began to glow with a frantic, unstable light. He needed to get home. He needed the silence of his warehouse. He needed to grip his brass knuckles until the world felt heavy again.

  The Toll of Ouroboros

  As the artificial cycle shifted toward "Deep Gloom," Ouroboros began to scream. It wasn't a sound of voices, but the mechanical shriek of a thousand pressure-relief valves and the low, bone-shaking thrum of the Aether-scrubbers. The city didn't sleep; it just turned predatory.

  Zoid was three blocks from the warehouse district when he saw the flicker of "Enforcer Blue."

  A group of three Enforcers, clad in heavy, steam-hissing ceramic plates, had cornered a group of laborers near an Aether-well. They weren't just collecting the nightly quota; they were "skimming." One Enforcer held a portable siphon-wand—a jagged, needle-like device used for unauthorized extractions.

  "I already gave! Look at the port!" a laborer pleaded, holding up a wrist that was bruised and weeping. "I'm at the red-line!"

  "The red-line just moved, old man," the lead Enforcer sneered, his voice distorted by a brass-grated respirator. "Consider this a convenience fee for not being in a cell."

  Zoid’s social anxiety flared, a hot prickle of sweat breaking out under his silver hair. He wanted to vanish. He wanted to phase through the nearest brick wall and hide. But the sight of the needle near the old man’s arm made his royal purple eyes flare with a sudden, jagged light.

  He stepped out of the shadows, his hot pink hoodie practically glowing under the flickering gas-lamps.

  "You guys really need a new hobby," Zoid said.

  His voice was a strange mix of a stuttering wreck and a razor-sharp blade. He didn't look up, his silver hair hiding his face, but his posture was wired tight—a shredded, lean animal ready to spring.

  The Enforcers turned. The leader, a man named Miller with a scar running across his respirator-seal, let out a short, metallic bark of a laugh.

  "Well, if it isn't the Golden Boy. Shouldn't you be at home polishing your halo?"

  Zoid shoved his hands deeper into his pink sleeves, his fingers finding the familiar weight of his brass knuckles. "Actually, I was just admiring the craftsmanship of your armor. Is it supposed to look that cheap, or did you guys get a group discount at the scrap-heap?"

  The two side-Enforcers bristled, their steam-batons crackling with blue electricity that that ate at Zoid's fangs. Miller held up a hand to stop them. He stepped closer to Zoid, the hiss of his suit’s cooling fans filling the silence.

  "You’ve got a big mouth for a kid living in a dumpster," Miller hissed, leaning in until Zoid could smell the ozone and cheap tobacco on his breath. "You think because you're the hero of the trash-heaps, you’re special? You’re just a battery we haven't drained yet."

  Zoid tilted his head. He didn't bare his fangs, but the corner of his mouth quirked into a smirk that was all 'Smart-Alec' venom. "A battery? That’s cute. Coming from a guy who’s essentially a glorified flashlight for the Upper Spire. How does it feel, Miller? Being the muscle for people who wouldn't even let you breathe their recycled air?"

  Miller’s hand twitched toward his baton. The air around Zoid began to hum. A faint, royal purple mist started to curl around his boots. He was beginning to "thin," his is anger was turning the silver ocean of his hair into a storm, his very atoms beginning to drift like sea-spray.

  "Watch it, kid," Miller growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You’ve got a long shadow protecting you, don't you? A certain... influence that keeps us from hauling you into a Siphon-Crate."

  Zoid’s smirk faltered. The mention of his "shadow" hit a nerve he didn't want touched.

  "But listen close," Miller continued, poking a metal-clad finger into Zoid’s chest, right over his heart. "That protection has a shelf-life. Your brother can't protect you forever. One of these nights, he’s going to be too busy, or he’s going to stop caring about a pink-wearing stray like you. And when that happens? I’m going to drain you until you're nothing but a silver-haired husk."

  Zoid didn't reply. The stuttering was back, a thick lump in his throat. He couldn't think of a comeback. The mention of him—the commander, the man in the iron uniform—always made Zoid feel like he was five years old and drowning.

  Miller laughed, satisfied with the silence. He signaled his men to move out, leaving the laborers shaken but untouched for now. "See you in the dark, Golden Boy."

  Zoid stood there long after the hiss of their suits faded. He was trembling, his face a deep crimson that had nothing to do with embarrassment this time. His body felt dangerously light. He looked down at his hand—it was almost translucent, the brick wall behind it visible through his palm.

  "I-I'm fine," he whispered to the empty street, his fangs catching on his lower lip. "I'm still here."

  He turned and bolted toward the warehouse district, his boots pounding a frantic rhythm on the metal grates. He needed to get home. The night was truly falling now, and in Ouroboros, when the sun went down, the ghosts came out to play—and Zoid was starting to feel like one of them.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The Clockwork Grind

  The next few days in Ouroboros were a rhythmic, soul-crushing repetition—a cycle of steam, soot, and survival.

  Every morning, the brass-plated bells of the Upper Spire would chime, a sound that felt like a physical blow to the head for anyone living in the Gut. It signaled the end of the Gloom and the start of the "Steam-Shift." The city would groan as the pressure was released, and a new wave of laborers would shuffle onto the metal-grate streets.

  Zoid spent these days doing what he did best: being the "Golden Boy" during the light and a ghost during the dark.

  Ouroboros was a hierarchy of power, and that power was dictated by how your body reacted to Aether. Zoid watched the others as he walked the streets, his silver hair tucked partially into his hot pink hoodie. He saw the Tanks—men and women whose Aether-saturation had turned their skin into living brass or thickened leather, making them the perfect heavy-lifters for the Siphon-Yards. He saw the Leapers, wiry scouts with pressurized valves in their joints that hissed blue vapor every time they vaulted between the narrow rooftops. There were even Kinetic-Types, who could manipulate the very steam in the air to move heavy gears, though they were rare and usually snatched up by the Enforcers to serve as human batteries.

  Zoid was none of those. He was a Phaser, an unregistered "Stray." He didn't have a place in the machine, so he carved one out in the margins.

  He spent his afternoons in the back-alleys, helping the "Broken." He was a genius with the gears—a "Smart-Alec" with a wrench who could fix things the official engineers had long ago condemned.

  "Zoid, the heater's coughing blood again," an old man named Halloway called out, gesturing to a rusted boiler.

  Zoid knelt, his hoodie sleeves pulled back to reveal his lean, shredded forearms. He didn't look like much in the baggy pink fabric, but his muscles were corded like steel cables from years of manual labor. He poked a long, nimble finger into the boiler’s intake.

  "That's because you're feeding it Grade-C sludge, Halloway," Zoid said, his voice regaining that sharp, biting edge. "This thing needs refined Aether, not the leftover spit from the Upper Spire. If I fix this, you owe me a copper gear. A good one. Not the rusted trash you tried to give me last week."

  Halloway laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "You're a prick, Zoid. But you're the only prick we've got."

  Zoid’s royal purple eyes glowed faintly behind his silver hair as he worked. He could see the Aether-flow inside the pipes, the way the energy pulsed like a heartbeat. He hated how much he liked the machines; they were logical. They didn't have social anxiety. They didn't make him stutter.

  But the "Same Old" was starting to take a toll.

  Every time Zoid used even a tiny spark of his power to solder a wire or jump-start a generator, his body felt a little colder. His fangs—those sharp, animalistic teeth he hid behind tight lips—would ache with a dull, thrumming hunger. He felt his density slipping. Sometimes, while walking, his foot would sink an inch too deep into the metal floor, and he’d have to squeeze his brass knuckles until the pain snapped him back into reality.

  He was a "full tank" in a city of empty people, and the pressure was building.

  In the evenings, he would watch the Siphon-Squads pass by. They were looking for Strays like him. They had devices—Aether-Sniffers—that could pick up the scent of high-grade energy. Zoid had to be careful. He stayed in the shadows, his hot pink hoodie becoming a liability he refused to give up because it was the only thing in this gray world that felt like his.

  "Your brother can't protect you forever," Miller’s voice would echo in his head during those long walks.

  Zoid would look up at the Highest Spire, where the elite lived in luxury, and feel the phantom weight of a twin he hadn't seen in years. The Commander. The man who kept the Enforcers off Zoid’s back through a web of favors and threats that Zoid didn't want to acknowledge.

  By the fifth night, the air in Ouroboros felt heavy—charged with a static that made Zoid’s silver hair stand on end. The corruption was thick enough to taste. The "Same Old" was about to break.

  He was heading back to his warehouse, his mind a mess of technical blueprints and social dread. He was thinking about how much he hated the way people looked at him—the "Golden Boy," the hero. He just wanted to be solid. He just wanted to be real.

  He turned the final corner toward the abandoned textile district, his boots echoing on the metal. The warehouse was a dark, hollow shell ahead of him. But the street wasn't empty.

  That was the moment the "Same Old" ended. That was the moment he saw the sapphire glow.

  The Sapphire

  The "Same Old Same Old" of Ouroboros finally fractured as Zoid turned the final corner of the rusted textile district.

  The air here was usually stagnant, smelling of cold grease and old iron, but tonight, it felt electric. It was a scent like high-altitude rain—crisp, clean, and dangerously pure. Zoid slowed his pace, his boots clicking softly on the metal grates, his hands buried deep in the front pocket of his hot pink hoodie.

  There, standing in the flickering amber glow of a dying street lamp, was the source of the ozone.

  She was petite, standing a head shorter than Zoid’s lean, lanky frame, but she radiated a presence that made the massive warehouse behind her look small. Her skin was a stunning, deep mahogany—rich and smooth, catching the light like polished obsidian. She was unloading a heavy brass trunk from a steam-dray, her movements graceful and effortless. Her hair was a masterpiece of long, intricate braids that reached down to her waist, woven with fine silver threads that shimmered with every movement.

  Zoid froze.

  In all his years as a Stray, as the "Golden Boy" who saw everything in the Gut, he had never laid eyes on anyone like her. She was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  The social anxiety that usually hummed like a background noise in his mind suddenly surged into a deafening roar. His heart didn't just beat; it performed a frantic, irregular rhythm against his ribs. The royal purple Aether in his marrow reacted to his panic, and he felt the tell-tale chill of "thinning" start at his heels.

  Don't disappear. Stay heavy. Stay real, he begged himself.

  As if she felt his eyes on her, she turned. Her face was framed by those stunning braids, her lips full and curved into a faint, curious expression. But it was her eyes that truly stopped his breath. They weren't the sickly, diluted blue of city-grade Aether. They were sapphire—bright, glowing, and piercingly intelligent.

  "You going to stand there all night, Pinkie? Or are you going to help me with this latch?"

  Her voice was smooth, lacking the gravelly rasp of the slum-dwellers. It had a playful, melodic lilt that made Zoid’s brain short-circuit.

  "I-I-I... h-h-help?" Zoid stammered.

  He took a step forward, then nearly tripped over his own feet. He felt his face heat up, a deep, burning crimson spreading across his cheeks that made his hot pink hoodie look dull by comparison. He reached out to grab the trunk, but his hands were trembling so much he nearly missed the handle.

  "I I'm.. Zoid," he managed to choke out, his silver hair falling forward to hide his eyes. He kept his mouth tight, terrified that a nervous twitch would reveal his fangs. "I l-live... there." He pointed a shaky finger toward the dark, hollow warehouse next door.

  The woman—Amani—let out a soft, hummed laugh. She stepped closer, and the sapphire glow of her eyes seemed to hum in harmony with his own purple energy. She leaned in slightly, a mischievous glint in her gaze.

  "Zoid, huh?" she purred, her eyes scanning him from his messy silver hair down to his boots. "The neighborhood kids mentioned a 'Golden Boy' lived in the warehouse. I was expecting someone a bit more... solid. You look like you're one strong breeze away from drifting off into the smog."

  "J-just the humidity!" Zoid squeaked, his voice cracking. He adjusted his hood frantically, his fingers brushing against the brass knuckles in his pocket. He needed that weight, or he was going to phase right through the sidewalk in front of her. "I'm v-very solid. I'm a t-technical expert. Gears and... stuff."

  Amani reached out, her fingers grazing the sleeve of his hoodie as she helped him steady the trunk. The contact felt like a lightning strike. Zoid flinched, his body flickering—becoming translucent for a terrifying millisecond—before he slammed his atoms back together with a surge of will.

  "You're a 'Stray,' aren't you?" she whispered, her voice dropping to a low, flirtatious hum that sent a shiver down his spine. "Unregistered. High-grade. And by the look of those purple eyes, you're a Phaser who's forgotten how to stay on the ground."

  Zoid’s fangs ached. He looked at her, his royal purple eyes wide with a mix of awe and sheer terror. "Y-y-you... how do you...?"

  "I know a lot of things, Zoid," she said, giving him a wink that made his knees go weak. "And I think you and I are going to be very interesting neighbors."

  She straightened up, leaving him standing there in a daze. "I'm Amani. Try not to fall through the floorboards tonight, Zoid. I'd hate to have to fish you out of the sewers on my first night here."

  She turned and headed into her building, the swaying of her braids the last thing he saw before the door clicked shut.

  Zoid stood alone in the dark, his face still burning, his heart still racing. He looked down at his hands; they were still shaking.

  "Oh...okay," he whispered to the empty street.

  The Shiver and the Steel

  The night didn't bring peace to the warehouse; it only brought the cold.

  Zoid lay on a makeshift cot in the center of the hollow industrial space, his hot pink hoodie discarded on a nearby crate. For the first time, his true build was visible—he wasn't just lean; he was carved from the same hard labor as the city itself, his chest and arms shredded with wiry, functional muscle. But even that strength was useless against the nightmare.

  In his sleep, his mind drifted back to the Spire—to the iron uniform of his brother and the screaming of the Aether-sinks. The guilt of his "bubble" life and the fear of his own thinning atoms swirled into a vortex.

  I’m not real, he whispered in his sleep. I’m just a ghost in a pink sweater.

  He bolted upright, a silent scream caught behind his fangs. His royal purple eyes snapped open, glowing with a frantic, jagged light that illuminated the rusted rafters. But as he tried to swing his legs out of bed, the nightmare didn't end.

  His feet didn't hit the floorboards. They passed through them.

  "No... no, no, no!" Zoid gasped, his voice cracking.

  The cold was absolute. It raced up his legs, turning his skin into the color of frosted glass. He reached for his workbench, where his brass knuckles sat—his only anchor—but as his fingers brushed the metal, they slipped right through it. He couldn't grab them. He was too thin. His mental state was so fractured from the nightmare that he was losing the ability to interact with the physical world.

  He sank to his waist, the ancient wood of the floor merging with his hips. He was drowning in the foundation of his own home.

  "H-help..." he choked out, his social anxiety momentarily crushed by the sheer terror of disappearing forever. "Someone... p-please..."

  The heavy warehouse door groaned, sliding open just enough to let in the sapphire light of the street. Amani stood there, her silver-wired braids shimmering. She didn't look like a stranger anymore; she looked like a lifeline.

  "Zoid!"

  She didn't hesitate. She sprinted across the warehouse, her petite frame moving with a speed that suggested she had her own secrets. She saw him—half-submerged, shirtless, his shredded torso flickering like a dying neon sign.

  "Don't touch me!" Zoid squeaked, his face burning despite the cold. "You'll... you'll f-fall through too!"

  "Shut up, Zoid," she snapped, but her voice was laced with a strange, stabilizing warmth.

  She reached into the space where his chest was flickering. She didn't just grab him; she channeled her sapphire Aether. To Zoid, it felt like being plunged into a warm bath. The sapphire light acted as a cage, holding his atoms together by sheer force of her will.

  "Focus on my eyes," she commanded, kneeling over him. "Look at the blue. Don't look at the floor. Use me as your weight."

  Zoid stared. The sapphire was deep, ancient, and solid. Slowly, the frosted-glass look of his skin faded. His muscles regained their definition. The floor pushed back against him, rejecting his presence, and he scrambled back onto the solid wood, gasping for air.

  He sat there, shivering, his bare, ripped chest heaving. He realized how close she was—realized he was half-naked and trembling in front of the most beautiful woman in Ouroboros.

  "I-I-I... I'm s-sorry," he stammered, trying to find his hoodie in the dark. "I usually... I-I keep it together b-better than this."

  Amani didn't pull away. She watched him, her gaze lingering on the sharp fangs he could no longer hide. "You're a mess, Zoid. A beautiful, royal purple mess."

  The moment of intimacy was shattered by a sound that made the very air in the warehouse vibrate.

  ?THUMP. HISS. THUMP. The brick wall didn't just break; it exploded. A massive, steam-driven fist smashed through the masonry, sending a spray of red dust and mortar across the floor like shrapnel. Out of the choking smog stepped a Titan-Class Automaton. It was a ten-foot-tall relic of the Great Siphon Wars, its rusted brass chassis leaking scalding steam. Its single, glowing red eye swept the room, locking onto the high-grade, royal purple radiance bleeding from Zoid’s bare chest.

  ?"The Lechers," Zoid hissed. The stutter was gone, replaced by a cold, predatory clarity. "They tracked the spike."

  ?The Titan let out a mechanical roar, a sound of grinding gears and shrieking metal. It swung a massive hydraulic mace, the head of the weapon a spiked ball of solid iron that whistled as it cut through the air toward Zoid's head.

  ?"Stay back, Amani," Zoid commanded. His voice dropped into a low, dangerous register that vibrated in his throat. “I'm going to show this trash-can why they call me the Golden Boy."

  ?He didn't run; he blurred.

  ?As the mace connected with the space where Zoid's head had been, he didn't dodge—he phased. The iron passed through his skull with a chime like a funerary bell, the atoms of the weapon and the man occupying the same space for a fraction of a second without touching.

  ?Zoid was a violet streak, his feet barely skimming the floorboards. He leaped, flickered into translucence mid-air, and materialized directly behind the Titan’s massive neck. With a snarl that bared his fangs in the red light, he plunged his hand into the primary steam-vent.

  ?He didn't just reach in; he solidified his grip inside the machine’s internal clockwork. For one brutal second, his hand became a solid anchor within the Titan's guts. With a heave of his shredded shoulders, he ripped.

  ?Wires snapped, sparks showered the floor, and the Titan’s core-regulator came away in his fist, dripping with hot oil.

  ?The machine let out a final, whistling shriek, its red eye flickering out as it collapsed into a heap of dead brass and screaming valves.

  Zoid landed softly, the effort leaving him translucent once more. He stumbled, his legs giving out, but before he could hit the floor, Amani was there, catching him.

  He sat on the floor of his ruined home, leaning against her, the adrenaline fading into a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The neighborhood would be waking up. The Enforcers would be coming. But for now, in the ruins of the warehouse, it was just the sapphire and the purple.

  "You're a hell of a showman, Pinkie," Amani whispered, pulling his discarded hoodie over his shivering shoulders.

  Zoid let out a weak, shaky laugh, hiding his face in the soft pink fabric. "I'm.. I'm just a s-stray. But... I think I'm okay with that."

  ENCRYPTED COMMAND LOG: #09-X

  ENCRYPTION: OMNIA-BLACK

  OFFICER: K.

  *"Listen up. I've seen the reports. You're all wondering why a kid in a pink hoodie isn't in a cage yet. It's simple: he's a Rank 10 hazard with zero stability. If you corner him, he doesn't just phase through your handcuffs; he might phase the entire Sector into the void.

  As for the 'Sapphire' woman seen near his warehouse-she is a Primordial Architect. She is my problem, not yours. If you want to keep your skin on your bones, you'll stay five blocks away from that warehouse. This isn't just a military order; it's a piece of advice from someone who knows what happens when a Phaser finally snaps."*

  Author's Note:

  Thanks for reading Chapter 1: The Anchor and the Ghost!

  This is actually my first time ever writing a light novel (or a web-serial), so I'm learning as I go. My goal was to create a world where I didn't have to limit my imagination and where I can implement a lot of personal things of my life. So Zoid and this world I'm creating are very dear to me. I'm very excited to share this piece of me with you.

  I don't have any official art yet, so I'm relying on the "theater of mind" if you will to bring the hot pink hoodie royal purple Aether to life. I'd love to hear what you think of the world of Ouroboros so far!

  If you enjoyed the "Violent Glitch" of Zoid's journey, please consider following the story and leaving a rating. It really helps a new author get noticed!

  Lastly, the cover art was created using Canva. I do not claim ownership of the individual elements or stock assets provided by the platform.

  Until next time

  YRSTRLY