Red looked at his golden feathers. He looked at the empty void. He remembered the first time he broke a real cage in Rio—the splintering wood, the satisfying pop of a monkey’s banana bomb, the feeling of earning a victory.
For the birds, it was a nightmare wrapped in a carnival mask. Red looked at his golden feathers
“Let them have infinite money,” he whispered to his monkey minions. “When they buy everything, there is nothing left to play. And when there is nothing left to play… the birds cease to exist.” corrupted by their own wealth.
He was right. One by one, the birds vanished. Not captured. Not caged. Deleted. Their save files bloated with a trillion coins, corrupted by their own wealth. Red looked at his golden feathers