They call me vain. Dramatic. A merciless judge.
Truth is, I’m just terrible at eye contact.
They bolted me above mirrors in Obscura 5’s washrooms – rooms reeking of antiseptic and desperation, where humans peel their reflections like sunburned skin.
They squint up at my glare, certain I’m tallying pores. But while they fret, I’m studying the faucet’s drip-code, the grout’s mold galaxies, the cracked tile that split last winter and still won’t quit. Survival isn’t pretty. It’s stubborn.