Neon Riot Rite

Noise piles high in this room like confetti, not from trumpets or brass but from keyboards sparking green code across tired monitors. A badge-laden vest gleams in the low pink glow, its owner mid-gesture with a mug that exhales white curls into air already thick with solder smoke and the metallic whisper of bike chains from the corner. They’ve laid offerings everywhere—pizza boxes scrawled in runes of usernames, soda cans turned sacred drums—and their circle feels less accidental, more ritual, as if one more chord from the guitar-toting figure near the wall might tilt them into transcendence. The sign snarls the question at every glance: WHERE’S VOJTA? Hieroglyph of the lost, scalding in its neon certainty. Phones hum like votive candles in restless hands; heads dip, screens flash, eyes sweep the labyrinth of wires and crumbs. They chant without speaking, their hunger coded into loops, because even in this furious bloom of invention and laughter, the one they seek spins just beyond the edges, refusing to resolve into presence.