The words are weightless. They do not land. They do not echo

The words are weightless. They do not land. They do not echo. They pass through the air like a brushstroke too light to stain the canvas, a dry-brush effect leaving only the impression of color, the absence of weight. The voice carries no malice, no hesitation, no consequence. It is an observation, a statement, a final note in a composition already completed. The scene is framed in Caravaggio-like contrast—sharp edges of light slicing through deep shadow, illuminating only what must be seen. The body lies still, its presence irrelevant, already fading into the darkness at the periphery. The act is finished. The decision was made before the question was asked. A pause. A tilt of the head, neither curious nor expectant, more like the flicker of a glitch effect in a still frame—an adjustment, a correction, a momentary displacement before continuing as intended. The expression does not change. The tone does not waver. "Did you say ‘help me’?" The words hold no interest in the answer. They are spoken, then discarded, as if they were never meant to be kept. The silence does not stretch. It simply exists, as unmoving as the space left in an unfinished negative painting, the shape of absence more defined than presence. "You didn’t, did you? Because saying it means losing." Losing. Winning. The words are empty, vessels without content. The meaning is not felt, only acknowledged, as one might regard the passing of time, the turning of pages in a book already read. The conclusion is inevitable, preordained, irrelevant. "But it doesn’t matter what you were thinking." It never did. The weight of another’s will, another’s plea, is lighter than air, lighter than thought, dissolving before it can take shape. The color drains from the moment, desaturated edges bleeding into the void, forms reduced to lines, then to nothing. "I killed you because you were in the way." Simple. Clear. The words settle like fine dust, gathering in unseen

The words are weightless. They do not land. They do not echo. They pass through the air like a brushstroke too light to stain the canvas, a **dry-brush effect** leaving only the impression of color, the absence of weight. The voice carries no malice, no hesitation, no consequence. It is an observation, a statement, a final note in a composition already completed. The scene is framed in **Caravaggio-like** contrast—sharp edges of light slicing through deep shadow, illuminating only what must be seen. The body lies still, its presence irrelevant, already fading into the darkness at the periphery. The act is finished. The decision was made before the question was asked. A pause. A tilt of the head, neither curious nor expectant, more like the flicker of a **glitch effect** in a still frame—an adjustment, a correction, a momentary displacement before continuing as intended. The expression does not change. The tone does not waver. "Did you say ‘help me’?" The words hold no interest in the answer. They are spoken, then discarded, as if they were never meant to be kept. The silence does not stretch. It simply exists, as unmoving as the space left in an unfinished **negative painting**, the shape of absence more defined than presence. "You didn’t, did you? Because saying it means losing." Losing. Winning. The words are empty, vessels without content. The meaning is not felt, only acknowledged, as one might regard the passing of time, the turning of pages in a book already read. The conclusion is inevitable, preordained, irrelevant. "But it doesn’t matter what you were thinking." It never did. The weight of another’s will, another’s plea, is lighter than air, lighter than thought, dissolving before it can take shape. The color drains from the moment, **desaturated edges** bleeding into the void, forms reduced to lines, then to nothing. "I killed you because you were in the way." Simple. Clear. The words settle like fine dust, gathering in unseen

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