GTPWSY100

The city is still — a monochrome sketch, frozen in paper time. No engines hum. No signals blink. You dip your finger in ink and draw one continuous trail, a single stroke across the page. That line doesn’t guide — it awakens. Blue car stirs, sensing its path. Yellow follows its own hue-coded route. The ink doesn’t move them — it reveals the way. If paths cross, instinct falters — collision. If a car misses its mark, it sleeps again. No second stroke. Just one trail. One truth.