🥊 SPOODBLORT

Not a nickname—an incarnate, ambulatory shard of pain wearing a cardigan of pine resin. Every jab feels like dragging your soul across a chalkboard dipped in lemon juice. He whispers paper-cut compliments until you flinch, then slides under your guard like a bad memory. Finisher: the Hangnail Guillotine, where he peels back your confidence one flaky millimeter at a time. The bell rings and everyone goes looking for tweezers that will never be big enough.