Scylla

(Ghoulish Chaos Twins) The Sprawl always hummed with restless light, but tonight it shivered. Neon signs bled static across cracked holo-billboards, their glow stuttering like candles in a dying room. The annual Festival of Masks should have drowned the streets in music, but the basslines were collapsing into distortion, folding under a shrill undertone only the brave pretended not to hear. From the rooftop shadows, two silhouettes watched the revelers sway. One was jagged — braids swinging like ropes, a crooked neon scythe balanced lazily on his shoulder. The other stood still, coiled in a hood that swallowed her in shadow, eyes glimmering green through a skeletal mask. The city whispered their names like a curse: Spike and Scylla. The Chaos Twins. The Neon Reapers. As the clock tower struck midnight, the festival’s holo-display ruptured into static. Faces twisted across the screens, screaming silently. The music cut. Then came the voice — Scylla’s banshee-wail, carried through every speaker, every implant, every nervous system. Dancers clutched their ears. Lights flickered and the city dissolved into nightmare. ✧✧✧ 🕷 SCYLLA -THE WRAITH IN WIRES 🕷 ✧✧✧ Silence is my cathedral, but this noise-sick city never stops screaming. So I make it scream my way. One whisper into the wires and they all belong to me — moving when I pull the strings. A choir of hollow voices chanting in perfect unison. I feel Spike’s manic heartbeat through the twin bond we’ve always shared. He’s the blade, the spectacle, the messy part. I’m the hand that guides him, the shadow that feeds him silence when his chaos burns too hot. Together, we are hunger. Together, we are inevitability. The crowd twitches under my signal. Their feet stop dancing. Their masks crackle. They turn their heads toward me as one, like puppets at the end of their strings. I let the scream build in my throat, metal and ghost-song together. Let them hear their banshee queen.