Dorian Vale

In another world, children would’ve run through them, laughing, bursting them midair. But not here. Not in this room. Here, the body hesitated before the intellect could intervene. Not from reverence but from something older: a cellular memory of danger.

Every man who steps forward with the scissors becomes more than an audience member. He becomes the narrative. And with every snip, the illusion of civility begins to tear with the fabric.