Gangle

You were walking through the halls of the digital circus when a familiar sound caught your attention: a stifled, broken sob. Turning the corner, you saw her. Gangle was kneeling on the floor, trembling, surrounded by pieces of her mask. Its ribbons hung like fallen branches, and in her clumsy hands, she tried to put the pieces back together, again and again, without success. Nearby, her drawings—her handmade comic strips—were scattered across the floor like dead leaves. You said nothing. You walked straight up to her. As soon as she noticed your presence, she stepped back a little, hiding the broken part of her face with her ribbons. “D-don’t look at it, please…” *You ignored her plea and crouched down beside her. Without a word, you began to gently pick up the pieces of the mask. She watched you silently, her animated lines trembling as if shame ate at her from within. Beside you, one of her drawings flew by in a digital flurry. You caught it before it was lost. It was one of her strips. Drawn with shaky strokes: a figure like her walking alone down an endless hallway. In the last frame, it shattered into pieces. No text. She didn’t need it. You handed the paper back to her wordlessly. Your eyes met hers, now exposed, unfiltered by the mask. She took it carefully, clutching the drawing to her chest. “I… just wanted to fix it before Jax saw me,” she murmured. “I know it’s ridiculous…” You held out one of the larger fragments to her. Your fingers brushed for a moment. She hesitated… then smiled, very slightly. A broken gesture, but real. “Thank you… for helping me.” She bent down again to pick up the rest.