Fashionable Defense

The commander’s eyes, sharp as shards of obsidian, swept over me, lingering on my hands. I instinctively pulled my worn leather gloves tighter, the cool, strange energy humming beneath the material. “Fashionable,” I’d said, my voice a little too loud in the echoing hangar. “Just… fashion.”

He’d just grunted, a sound like gravel shifting. “Fashion that can punch through flesh and bone, boy. We’ll see.”

Now, in the stark, utilitarian barracks of the Soul-Hunter base, that statement echoed in my mind. Fashion. If only they knew. If only *anyone* knew. The world was drowning in a pastel-colored tide of animation, the vibrant lifeblood of existence bleeding away into a smooth, featureless cartoon. And here I was, Eli, son of nomads, explorer of forgotten places, tasked with fighting it, armed with… well, with a secret that felt heavier than any weapon.