Pegasus Signals Updraft

The street pulsed like a split-second before an eclipse, smells of brass and burned sugar lifting from the cobbles. I’d clawed my way from colder alleys into this teeming carnival of glyphs and neon runes, chasing rumors that cracked like gunfire through the crowd. Two men held the axis of it all—a trench coat slicing the grime, a striped sweater tugging at borrowed bravado—standing still while everything else spiraled frenetic. Above them, the winged horse soared in paint and myth, banner arched with a single demand: Where Vojta? Local whispers insist that when brass automata clatter and fairy wings flare violet, some truth strains toward the surface. Yet every symbol only detours the mind, deeper into mirrored illusions. My ribs hummed from the pressure, boots sinking in discarded gears and brittle bones as the tempo quickened. The legend said you’d know the turning point when silence gathered like a blade—but here, silence never came. Only the throb of signs, the tremor of clocks unseen, and the aching gap where Vojta should have stood.