The night sky of New York is an endless ocean illuminated by human ambition and desire.
Hannibal and the Deconstructionist stand on high ground over this ocean.
The cold wind howled from the top observation deck of the Empire State Building, shattering the hustle and bustle of the city below.
Countless lights converge into a flowing river of light, outlining the steel skeleton of this city that never sleeps.
"Look, Deconstructionist."
Hannibal's voice was as clear and calm as the cold wind blowing from above.
He didn't point to any specific building, but instead wrapped his arms around the entire field of vision.
"What an arrogant creation."
"Every skyscraper flaunts humanity's ambition to conquer nature."
"They built high walls with reinforced concrete, separating people and creating countless lonely cages."
"People are born, grow old, and die in it, thinking they own the world, yet they never truly touch one another."
The Deconstructionist remained silent.
His eyes reflected the dazzling prosperity below, the city lights that had once filled him with pride and that he longed to connect with and warm through his art.
Now, this sea of light only holds hatred in his eyes.
Each lit window seemed like a pair of eyes peering into his pain.
Hannibal noticed the change in his emotions.
He stepped forward and stood next to the Structuralist.
The voice was lowered even further, like a lover's whisper.
"You once wanted to use architecture to connect people, to compose harmonious movements with lines and spaces."
"But what did it give you in return?"
It took everything from you.
"This city uses your work to flaunt its glory, yet in your happiest moment, it crushed your loved ones, along with your pride, into dust."
Don't you hate it?
Don't you hate this city that swallowed up your family?
hatred.
Of course he hates it!
Suddenly, the thick glass of the observation deck emitted a faint, sickening groan.
Several tourists who were taking pictures were startled by the strange sound and looked around in confusion.
The Deconstructionist's body began to tremble uncontrollably.
He saw the Phantom of the opera house rise from the city below, then silently turn to dust once more.
His wife's exclamation and his daughter's cries echoed in his ears.
Hannibal reached out and gently placed his hand on his shoulder.
"Shh..."
"Anger is a necessary fuel, but a good artist knows how to control the heat."
Hannibal's face held a mentor-like gentleness.
"Now is not the time."
"A great performance needs a proper overture."
Two days later.
A bizarre urban legend has begun to quietly take shape on New York's social networks.
The incident started in Central Park.
Deep within the park, on a secluded lawn near the reservoir, once stood a small memorial to war heroes.
It was a bronze statue depicting three soldiers supporting each other as they moved forward, with a base made of solid granite.
It has stood here for more than half a century.
However, one Wednesday morning, the runners were horrified to find that it had disappeared.
It wasn't pushed down, it wasn't blown up.
They've completely disappeared!
The place where the monument once stood is now just an empty lawn.
The meadow even retains its slightly sunken square outline, a result of being compressed by the foundation for fifty years.
Police cordoned off the area, but the experts who examined the scene found nothing.
The only clue we could find was the surveillance camera facing that area.
The video shows that at 3:07 a. m., the image was suddenly replaced by static.
This signal interruption lasted for two minutes.
At 3:09, when the video returned to normal, the monument was gone.
This news quickly sparked a heated debate online.
The hashtag #DisappearingStatues quickly became a trending topic.
"It was done by aliens! This is how they collect samples from Earth's civilization!"
"I suspect it's some kind of prank, or a highly skilled team of magicians."
"Don't you think this is terrifying? If you can make a statue disappear, can't you also make a building, or even an entire city block disappear?"
Faced with the overwhelming public outcry, New York City Hall held an emergency press conference the following day.
The spokesperson was a middle-aged man who read a prepared script to dozens of cameras.
"Regarding the Central Park monument, please do not panic, and do not believe the rumors circulating online."
"This... this is a planned municipal maintenance."
"Due to some aging issues with the internal structure of the monument, for public safety reasons, our relevant departments have decided to carry out... an emergency, nighttime dismantling and relocation operation."
A reporter stood up and asked a pointed question.
"Mr. Spokesperson, since this was a planned demolition, why wasn't it announced in advance?"
"Furthermore, to our knowledge, no engineering company received this project. How did you manage to move a statue weighing tens of tons overnight without leaving any trace?"
Sweat beaded on the spokesperson's forehead.
"This... this involves some new, uh, confidential construction techniques. We can't disclose the specific details."
This vague and flawed "clarification" not only failed to quell public doubts, but also confirmed everyone's suspicions—that the government was lying.
They had no idea what was happening.
Deep within the underground railway tracks.
Haozi and several other core members of the " Awakened Mutual Aid Society " were sitting around an old computer screen.
On the screen was playing that awkward press conference.
"Secret construction techniques?"
One member laughed.
"They might as well just admit it's magic."
No one looked relaxed.
They all turned to the silent figure in the corner.
" Prophet."
The Haozi's voice was somewhat hoarse.
"This... did he do this? That... monster who wiped out the bridge?"
"The disintegration of the bridge is an anonymous, private performance, a demonstration of power to us."
"The disappearance of the monument is a public, deliberate declaration."
Everyone held their breath, waiting for what would happen next.
He is announcing his existence.
He's mocking everything we know.
"He's using this method to set the stage for his upcoming, real performance."
The Haozi felt a chill seep into its very bones.
He recalled the Prophet's earlier words, "The only thing we can do is kill God."
But now, this "god" hasn't even revealed his true form; he has merely erased an insignificant monument, yet he has already plunged the entire New York into panic and suspicion.
Do these rats hiding in the gutter really have the right to challenge such an existence?
Deconstructionist have returned to their own "gallery".
He has just completed a "creation".
A familiar sense of emptiness once again engulfed him.
Hannibal appeared behind him.
He handed me a document with news photos and text.
"You are no longer a lonely whisperer; your work now has a real audience."
"Though they are ignorant and unable to comprehend the meaning of your work, their fear and confusion are themselves the most beautiful harmony in this overture."
That's not enough.
The Deconstructionist spoke in a hoarse voice.
His voice was filled with longing.
Hannibal's smile grew even brighter.
He took a photograph from his pocket and handed it to the Deconstructionist.
The photo shows the front of the New York Metropolis Museum of Art.
The sun was shining brightly.
Countless tourists are resting and taking photos on the steps in front of the gate, their smiling faces captured in the camera lenses.
It was a hall filled with laughter and joy.