Entry I — The rain had a temper that night. Streetlamp halos split the black and white like cheap film. I kept walking with the weight of someone else's memory in my coat pocket. They told me to let it go. You can't let anything go when it keeps calling your name.

There are panels of a life you can't tear out — like comic frames glued tight to the back of your skull. I found a photograph folded in the pocket; the edges were burned clean as guilt. I used to know the face in that photo. Now it just reads like a caption: victim.

The city is a comic strip and I'm stuck between panels. Shot silhouettes, wet asphalt reflections, and the pulse of neon that never learned how to be kind. They call it justice. I call it a bad punchline.

You can keep scrolling through the file. Each paragraph will play like a cutscene, except this time there's no pause button.

They told me to sleep. They didn't tell me about the dreams — panels blown up in red ink, speech bubbles full of static, and the taste of gunmetal when you open your mouth. The night keeps taking its cut. It always does.