Warrick Sullivan
Founder of Wozbot
The Archivist of Ashenlight
The world ended not with a bang, but with a slow, suffocating silence. In the blistered remains of a once-towering city—its skyline now reduced to skeletal spires clawing at a blood-orange sky—a lone table stands like an altar to memory.
The day everything changed
It started with the birds. They didn’t fly—they dropped. Silent. Mid-flight. Like marionettes with their strings cut, falling into the fields. No noise. Just thuds in the distance, soft and wrong.
Dreams amid desolation
Night has wrapped the city in shadow, the stars hidden behind a ceiling of smoke and cloud. Down a cracked and overgrown alleyway, a single oil lantern glows weakly, its flicker casting gold against concrete smeared with graffiti and old blood.
Beneath the market table
In a bustling street market, noise and color swirl above—vendors shouting, fruit stacked in pyramids, spices thick in the air. But beneath one wooden stall, in the sliver of shadow between canvas and cobblestone, a muddy puppy curls in a cautious ball.
A heart etched in metal and moss
Nestled in a golden glade where sunlight drips through leaves like warm honey, a small, weathered robot stands motionless—its rust-speckled frame catching glints of light like old armor rediscovering the sun. Moss clings softly to its joints, and wildflowers have begun to grow around its feet, as if the forest has adopted it as one of its own.