He doesn't run. He walks. Because on Devil’s Night, the devil doesn't hide. He audits. He collects. And tomorrow, when the smoke clears and the news cameras pack up, the city will rebuild—not with wood and steel, but with the same rusted chains, polished just enough to call them progress.
Devil’s Night was never about arson. It was about permission.
He strikes the match. Sulfur and memory.
Corrupt: Devil’s Night