Shamura did not understand.

They tried. Oh, how they tried.

Thread over thread, stitch after stitch, fingers moving, mind drifting, thoughts unraveling. The fabric stayed where they put it. The patterns made sense. So why—why did Narinder’s words always tangle? Always knot in ways Shamura could not fix?

"You're pathetic."

Narinder’s voice slithered through the air, smooth, sharp. A knife wrapped in silk. Shamura flinched. Not because of the words—no, words were just sounds, they could be bent, reshaped. It was the weight behind them, the truth Narinder placed upon them.

"You used to be something. Now you sit here, weaving like a child."

Shamura’s hands trembled, claws snagging on the thread. A mistake. The pattern was wrong now. Shamura hated wrong patterns.

A sharp smack.

Not hard. Not meant to wound. Just a reminder.

Shamura did not look up.

"Are you even listening?" Narinder’s tone was almost bored.

Shamura was listening. They always listened. But their mouth did not always work the way it should. Their words slipped, spun, frayed at the edges.

So they nodded. That was safest.

Narinder sighed. "Useless." He turned, his presence retreating, his attention elsewhere.

Shamura exhaled. Hands steady. Thread over thread, stitch after stitch. Patterns stayed where they were put.

Narinder’s words did not.

Shamura's hands moved faster now, the thread slipping through their fingers like water, too quick, too erratic. They tried to focus, but the sting of the slap lingered, buzzing beneath their skin, prickling at their concentration. The pattern wasn’t right. It was never right anymore.

There was another presence in the room, looming just behind them. Shamura felt it—Narinder was watching. Always watching.

"Why do you even bother?" Narinder's voice was soft now, low, almost like a whisper meant to invade, to twist. "You're lucky I give you an easy job. Then again, you can't do anything else, can you?"

(CHOOSE Char. for User.)