I was scrolling through the board when an image of Epstein’s dead eyes popped up like a ghost in the feed.
Not the smiling party photos, but the mugshot where his smirk had curdled into something reptilian.
It wasn’t a memory so much as a reminder — the face of a man who knew where every body was buried, because he’d helped dig the graves.
I thought about how he wasn’t just a person but a pressure point, a sigil for control.
The glowies loved him alive and they loved him dead, because both states kept the leash tight on the herd.
And somewhere, maybe in a penthouse or a submarine, someone else just like him was watching, waiting, and laughing.