Elias blinked. "In English, please."

Let the glands breathe. The phrase haunted Elias. He was a man who kept everything under wraps—his emotions, his ambitions, his body. The idea of his armpits "breathing" felt obscene.

The client stopped, deflated by the unexpected admission.

In the private bathroom, he lifted his arm. The skin was a battlefield. Angry, red lumps the size of peas, some connected by underground tunnels of inflammation, crisscrossed the pale flesh. One had opened into a tiny, weeping sinus tract, oozing a thin, bloody serum. This was no longer a simple clog. This was a system failure. His body was rebelling against its own design.