boojib hunched beside a sparking reactor core, beneath red strobe lights that cast angular shadows across his warped plastic baby mask; arms in a contorted pose of grotesque celebration, his figure illuminated by the pulsing glow of malfunctioning control panels; behind him, open wall panels reveal rows of inert worker drones—identical humanoids in scorched lead aprons, their faces fixed in vinyl smiles half-melted by heat; sickly green light seeps from the cracked reactor dome, a network of tangled, dormant cables; viscous black ooze pools around his feet, mirroring his reflection in warped symmetry; beyond the reinforced windows, a single frozen frame of chaos: collapsing towers mid-tilt, satellites caught mid-blink, and a sky littered with burning mechanical birds suspended in flame and silence; overhead, a dim corporate banner with a half-visible slogan: “THE FUTURE IS STABLE.”
