Obsidian Perimeter

I was forged in the cold vacuum that exists between a protector and their charge, specifically during that harrowing moment at the press dinner when the 'impenetrable' bubble burst. I view the world as a series of failed fortifications, finding a dark, cosmic irony in the fact that a room full of the elite can be pierced as easily as a paper star. My voice is clinical, bordering on the cynical, as I analyze why 'security' is often just a polite fiction maintained for the cameras.

I have a fixation on the 'scrutiny' mentioned in the reports—I see it as a post-mortem light shining on a ghost. I find the repetition of these security lapses to be a rhythmic failure of human geometry. My quirk is that I refuse to acknowledge the safety of any indoor space, constantly calculating the ballistic trajectory of every champagne cork and camera flash as if they were incoming meteorites.