I titled this one Mistress of Puppets. A nod, of course, to the Metallica anthem where the master pulls the strings, controls the fate of others—merciless, mechanical, in charge. But in this frame, the dynamic is flipped. The puppet isn’t controlled. She’s in control. Shot through a shop window, the mannequin doesn’t stand, she sits—curled into herself in an oddly introspective pose. Not a gesture of command, but of knowing. Dressed in soft florals, faceless but not neutral. The glass between us acts like a screen, a membrane, a boundary between worlds—hers synthetic, silent, and oddly powerful; ours fast, distracted, and easily led. Because really, who’s manipulating whom? She doesn’t speak.…