He built himself a war mask out of velvet and panic, eyes wide like he just realized none of it worked. Gold needles drool from cartoon sunbursts behind his head, but they don’t bless—they interrogate. Every thread screams look at me, but the mouth—stitched in metal—says nothing, not even sorry. Beneath it all, a tiny green figure clings to his chest like a forgotten apology, soft and still, the only honest thing he’s wearing.
