My apartment smelled of digital ink, ozone from the rendering tablets, and the faint, lingering scent of righteous fury.
The raw footage from the OmniCorp heist played on a loop on my main screen—a silent, chaotic ballet of shadow and light.
I watched Ghost slip through laser grids, Havoc's barely contained power, Oracle's digital wizardry, and at the centre of it all, the calm, commanding presence of our Villainess.
My official title was Historian.
I documented our actions, packaged them for public consumption, and controlled the narrative. It was a role I had chosen, a purpose I had embraced.
But as I watched the footage, another title felt more appropriate: propagandist.
My art wasn't just telling a story anymore.
Since Luna had granted me the Empathic Ink skill, my drawings had become a weapon. I wasn't just showing people what happened; I was making them feel it.
I was injecting our ideology directly into their hearts.
And I had never felt more alive.
