Meat wrapped in machine, a gladiator stitched from grandma’s rebellion—soft wool and jagged chrome, synthetic sinew pulsing beneath a carnival of riotous fuzz. The mask, a muzzle, a jaw wired shut with fear of feeling, lest the stitches unravel and something dangerously human spill out. Strength clatters against softness, too terrified to admit that maybe the feathers and beads were always part of the armor.
