描述
Tudor horror spun into the neon fabric of the universe. Henry sits there, resplendent and gaudy in golden pomp, draped in an empire’s weight, gripping the oozing spoils of power like a butcher satisfied with his work. And the head!—dear oh dear, the head. Wide-eyed, frozen in its own disbelief, it dangles as a trophy of bureaucracy’s betrayal, a warning carved in flesh: loyalty will not save you from the chopping block.
You can almost hear the shrieking echoes of paranoia in those swirling voids behind him, can’t you? The relentless hum of a thousand invisible knives sharpening, of alliances cracking like brittle glass. Each color—each sickly, glowing hue—seeps through the cracks of history like corrupted light, illuminating the grotesque carnival of power. The severed head becomes more than flesh; it’s a monument to man’s smallness against the machinery of kings and fate.
And those bursts—SNAP! THWACK!—as if the universe itself gasps at the audacity of it all. Power grins its pearly teeth, dripping crimson into a cosmos that cannot decide whether it is laughing or weeping. Look at Henry! His smug, bloated magnificence—still so alive, while everything around him rots. The head, the void, the chaos—it all asks: what happens when a man becomes history? When his flesh dissolves into the abstraction of his legacy, and the only thing left is the grip of another’s hand.