The hiss of spray paint filled the cool night air, the acrid scent clinging to my lungs, mixing with the adrenaline humming beneath my skin. My fingers were stained with streaks of red and black, the colors of revolution, of defiance. I stepped back, admiring my work sprawled across the warehouse wall—bold, raw, and impossible to ignore.
A snarling wolf, fangs bared, stood atop a crumbling skyscraper. Beneath it, faceless figures marched in chains, their heads bowed, blindfolds wrapped tightly around their eyes. Above it all, the words "The Rich Feast, the Poor Rot" bled across the concrete like a warning, or maybe a prophecy.
A bitter smile tugged at my lips.
We were all just cogs in a machine, sold the illusion of choice while the ones at the top decided who got crushed under the weight of their greed. Sure, there were people who worked hard, who clawed their way up from nothing and built something good, but let's not kid ourselves—this world didn't reward honesty or integrity. It rewarded power. Ruthlessness. The ability to step on someone's neck with a polished shoe and call it progress.
And my father had been part of that machine.
Well, before he wasn't.
Once upon a time, he believed in something—fair wages, workers' rights, the kind of radical ideals that made rich men nervous. He built his company from the ground up, not by exploiting people, but by actually giving a damn. Then he died, and the vultures swooped in. The board of directors handed the reins to a power-hungry parasite in a tailored suit, a man who bled the company dry while preaching about "necessary cutbacks."
They called it "corporate restructuring."
I called it bullshit.
And that's why I was here.
With one last shake of the can, I added my signature in sharp, slanted letters at the bottom of the mural—E. W.
A name that used to mean something.
Now, it was nothing more than a ghost, a shadow moving through the city, leaving messages in paint and smoke.
Sirens wailed in the distance, a sharp reminder that I'd already spent too much time basking in my own artistic defiance. I grabbed my backpack, slinging it over my shoulder, and took one last glance at my work before vanishing into the night.
