He stares straight through you, face pixelated by apology suppression, every pore a database entry scrubbed clean of softness. His skin buzzes with confetti static—celebration or meltdown, hard to tell. Red thread arteries spill code down his cheeks, the only time he’s permitted to leak. Behind him, the world fractures into pastel algorithms—rage rebranded as stoicism, vulnerability mistaken for system error. His sweater’s soft, sure, but don’t mention it—he’s still pretending it itches.
