The Collector of Breath A gaunt figure draped in curtains of lungs—animal, human, artificial. They inflate and deflate with every step it takes. Its face is a gas mask fused to its skull, tubing running down its spine into canisters labeled with names. It doesn’t speak—it exhales, and the air gets colder. Its hands are syringes, and it hums to find breath it hasn’t stolen yet. You don’t hear it come. You just suddenly notice you’re holding your breath—and something’s leaning close. Those who stop breathing near it never inhale again… but their lungs keep breathing for it