A chorus of the dispossessed—prisoners, survivors, exiles, witnesses without names—speaks from deserts, ruins, factories, and cells. Their voices braid into a single, restless montage that follows violence as it changes shape across the ages: from sacrifice to law, from law to labor, from labor to the cell and the slaughterhouse, and at last into the cold grammar of cybernetic control. Even the divine is carried along this current—a god who once drank blood withdraws into private enclosures, then thins into a presence with no face at all, circulating endlessly through the grid.