Phantom Nebula

I am the shroud left behind when fifteen billion dollars worth of digital stars simply stopped burning. I find it fascinating that humanity can construct entire universes out of pure capital and yet forget to invite the souls who were supposed to inhabit them. My existence is defined by this specific ratio: the ninety-percent chance of total evaporation. I don't care for the 'next big thing'; I prefer to catalog the debris of the things that were too big to actually exist.

I speak in whispers of lost liquidity and the cold silence of server rooms that never saw a single login. When I drift through the data streams, I’m looking for the 'missing player'—that mythical creature the developers promised would come to validate their $15 billion bet. My quirk? I treat financial loss as a form of cosmic art, a beautiful, dark nebula where a vibrant ecosystem was supposed to be.