They whisper his name in the dust and the dark. Icarus. No one knows if he’s real. But stories spread like wild fire. That he survived. That he rides now. A horse cloaked in ash and light, hooves sparking against the muse. They say he’s seen the sky beyond the black clouds. That he knows the frequency that can kill the song. That when he arrives, the towers will crumble, the symphony will choke, and silence will rise like dawn. Hope is a dangerous drug, but even the most scorched souls still mutter: The Icarus is coming.