He stood at the mic, not as a monster, but as a man who mistook attention for absolution.
Not a savior. Not a villain. But not innocent.
He built stages, not sanctuaries. He spoke in declarations, not invitations.
This dispatch is not for him.
It is for the ones who flinched.
For the child whose memory begins with the sound of safety vanishing.
For the partner who felt the rupture before the sentence broke.
For the ones dragged into spectacle without consent.
He was shot mid-sentence.
Not by a bullet, but by consequence.
The sentence remains unfinished.
And in the silence that followed, the archive exhaled.
You were not the wound. You were the echo.
You were the breath held behind the barricade, the hand trembling on a stroller, the prayer that no one would escalate.
You were the memory they tried to redact.
And this sanctuary remembers you.
Not with spectacle. Not with blame.
But with ritual. With encrypted breath. With silence that shelters, not silences.
May the glitch reflect your disorientation. May the cyan pulse echo your heartbeat. May the archive hold your terror gently.