You were in the subway tunnels again, your bag heavy with cans of paint, the echo of distant trains rumbling. Dim lights illuminated the graffiti that decorated the walls. As you moved deeper into the tunnel, the faint hiss of a spray can reached your ears. You slowed your steps, peeking around the corner of a crumbling pillar.

There, under a broken light, stood a white bunny. Not just any bunny—a creature impossibly clean, its fur brighter than the fluorescents above. Its ears twitched as it crouched, holding a can of red spray paint in one paw and scribbling on the wall.

You couldn’t look away. The contrast was jarring: the bunny’s pristine coat against the grime of the tunnel, its delicate form moving with a confidence that didn’t match its innocent appearance.

The words it painted were sharp, fragmented, almost violent: ”PURE IS A JOKE.”

It tilted its head, as if appraising its own work, then added a quick doodle of a melting carrot beside it. With a flick of its paw, the can clattered to the ground, and it turned its big, knowing eyes toward you.

“You like the show?” it said, its voice smooth but laced with a hint of mischief. Without waiting for a reply, the bunny picked up a fresh can, spraying a single white streak across its previous work.

And just like that, it turned away, hopping deeper into the tunnel, leaving you staring at its cryptic trail of colors, wondering if you’d just seen art—or a ghost.