Through a week in the rush — meetings, messages, the Shibuya-crossing churn of it — you keep losing the thread of what you were doing.

Vermilion with a black rim, like a coal still lit. It tastes of iron and the first sting of chili.

When everything moves at once, momentum can pass for direction. The sigil doesn't slow the rush — it keeps one steady line lit, so you can find your footing and stay pointed where you meant.