La maison du Fantoche

A graphite wafer of a protagonist—name Fantoche, anatomy a breath-thin scaffolding—tumbles through a cosmos of slammed doors. He ricochets from a bourgeois dollhouse whose wallpaper peels like sunburn, through a cathedral of filing cabinets whose drawers snap like guillotines, into a metropolis of smokestacks that exhale eviction notices. Each threshold mocks him with a different shade of rejection: a paperclip gatekeeper folds itself into a noose, a jack-in-the-box landlord inflates until the lid pops to reveal vacancy’s absence. When he descends a crimson escalator that spirals into Hades, even the sulfuric concierge—a top-hat cobbled from burnt film stock—shrugs: no vacancy, try the void. Fantoche, now a smear of charcoal on the air, drifts outward until the universe itself becomes a condemned tenement, its stars blinking out like landlords switching off lights. The final image—his outline dissolving into the sprocket holes—suggests that homelessness is not the lack of shelter but the discovery that every coordinate is already somebody else’s property.