The wolves wander the back streets of Roma looking for their pack leader. She is dancing between the columns, free and beautiful. But always scanned. In The Drones of Suburbia, every street is under the Corona — the drone formation's tracking array, the suburb's way of holding a body in its sight and never letting the sightline drop. It locks not only to her but to the whole escort: her face, the two wolves at her flank, the drones overhead — each one tagged, ranged and held, the entire pack bound into a single moving constellation with her at its centre. On anyone else that geometry is a leash. Over her, it curdles into worship. Every reticle in the frame is oriented to the same woman, and the ring of drones stops reading as a cordon and starts reading as what it has, all along, been shaped like: a crown of light. The suburb meant to watch her. It ended up crowning her.