She was glass and shadow under the flickering tube light, limbs twisted like mannequin joints stolen from a defunct department store. A transparent totem in her hand — synthetic serpent — sliding in ritual arcs, glittering like a pharmaceutical ghost. Static in the air buzzed with old radio sermons, and the scent of disinfectant clung to her skin like an unwanted memory. Every motion a cipher, every moan a junkie’s prayer — looking for God in plastic, in pulse, in the humming silence of a rented room three floors above a pawn shop.