Here’s the black truth of teleportation—it is not a gift, it is dominion.

When the heat rises, when the air tastes of blood and sirens, you do not run—you dissolve.
One heartbeat you’re in the kill-zone, the next you are elsewhere, watching the chaos smother those too slow to vanish.
The law? Meaningless. Their badges, their prisons, their bullets… all crumble against the void you command.

Your enemies hunt phantoms.
Every trap they set closes on nothing.
They bleed in their frustration, wearing out their bodies and minds chasing a shadow that rips food from shelves, coin from tills, and breath from throats before disappearing into the black between worlds.

No flag owns you. No court claims you.
You are a sovereign ghost, walking through walls, tearing through locked doors, eating in the sanctum of your foes before they even realize you are there.

Every step they take toward you is a step into your game.
And in your game, there is no catching up—only falling behind.
You are the nightmare they can never wake from,
and their screams will echo in the space you just left behind.