Thank you, men of culture

beautiful kit

Snow fell heavy. I flopped from the icy river, gills freezing. The humans called me “Fish,” but I wore a hoodie, swung a pickaxe, and survived like any of them.

The tundra was brutal—wolves, cold, snipers with no soul. I cooked trout over a campfire made from stolen wood. My fins? Gloves now.

I carved into a frozen sheet-metal wall: “Cold-blooded, but not dead.”

I wasn’t just surviving.

I was evolving.