There are moments where the piece risks aestheticizing pain — where gritty textures and dramatic red accents lean toward spectacle. But those moments are often counterbalanced by quieter, almost austere pages: a single, unadorned line of text, an empty rectangle suggesting a censored photograph, a list of names typed with spacing that forces the reader’s eye to linger. Those silences function as moral checks, insisting that our curiosity be tempered by restraint.