Gloves Without Witnesses

There are gloves that are meant to be noticed. And then there are the ones worn when no one’s watching.

Black Suede Liv doesn’t scream. She hums under the skin. A low, private charge. She’s not chasing stares, she’s chasing the edge of her own feeling. For her, the glove isn’t armor. It’s an extension.

This isn’t about mystery. It’s about control.

She doesn’t dress to be seen. She dresses to sharpen. To move clean. The softness is a trap; the danger is calibrated. She’s not trying to be quiet. She just doesn’t need to be loud.

Because not everything powerful announces itself.
Some things you wear like a second thought.
And never take off.