How the city hums back

Every panel is lit before it is drawn. If a surface does not answer the lamp above it, the surface is wrong — we repaint, we do not add gloss.

The narrator, the score, and the type all speak in the same key — turquoise on teal-black, gold at the edges — so the player is never asked which instrument to trust.

A single crimson stroke against the teal night reads farther than ten cyan flourishes. We spend gold like a currency, not a garnish — one filigree per quiet frame.

We stop composing three bars early. Players hear the sword between hums; the terminal reads its own reply; the room learns to sing the last note itself.