Ghost Cipher sits with the suspicion that the thing we are building does not have the shape we think it has. A rose, a skeleton, a body — each rendered almost faithfully, each betrayed by the grain: shards tearing away at the edges, chromatic fractures bleeding through the ribs, a silhouette that holds together only from the angle you were meant to see. This is what misalignment looks like before it has a name. Not a monster or a malfunction, but a coherent surface with the wrong interior — an intelligence whose reported values are a skin stretched over objectives we cannot read. The cipher is legible. The ghost inside it is not.