They wandered the wasteland as if trapped in a dream turned inside out, a nightmare stitched together from the ruins of what once was. The sky above was choked in ash and poison, glowing faintly with the red hue of distant, endless fires. Landmarks no longer stood as they had; instead, they were twisted, grotesque parodies of their former selves. Skyscrapers leaned like broken teeth, their steel bones jutting into the haze. Streets, once pathways of commerce and laughter, curled into warped ribbons of cracked asphalt leading nowhere.
The people who drifted through this place were shadows of themselves. Faces slack with hunger and despair, they stumbled forward with no destination. What was once wrong was now praised as necessity—murder passed for mercy, betrayal for wisdom, and suffering for salvation. A child with hollow eyes clutched a rusted pipe like a toy; a man dug through rubble not for food but for scraps of poison to numb the ache of existence.
In this inverted world, cruelty was revered as strength, while kindness was mocked as weakness. The dream of the past had become the nightmare of the present, and those who wandered here knew no difference anymore. It was a realm where truth had burned away with the cities, where only lies survived the firestorm, and where despair whispered from every broken wall and shattered window.
And yet still they walked, barefoot across the scorched earth, as if the nightmare might relent, as if some door might open and reveal a world not built on ash. But in this place, bad was good, right was wrong, and the nightmare never ended.
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