Armadillo

They said the world used to be softer. That the ground once welcomed footsteps instead of swallowing them whole. That people moved through the streets without wearing armor— without needing to curl inward like a fist.

But that was a long time ago.

Now, the ones who survived learned to harden. They folded in on themselves, ribs pressing tight against lungs, skin thickening like calloused hands gripping a rusted wheel. The city had no patience for the tender. You either learned to roll with the asphalt or you got flattened by it.

She moved through the streets like she was part of them— small, quick, unseen. Her back a shell, her heart a thing buried deep, locked away where the world couldn’t reach it. She wasn’t running. Not exactly. Just staying ahead of the weight pressing down.

Ahead of him.

She spotted the crumpled bit of foil near the curb, catching the last of the streetlight. A sign. A reminder. She used to love armadillos when she was a kid— thought they were funny little creatures, the way they curled up when things got bad.

But she knew better now.

Rolling into a ball didn’t save you. It only made it easier for someone to pick you up. To carry you away.

She straightened. Unfolded. The world was hard. But maybe—just maybe— she didn’t have to be.