There is a nakedness that has nothing to do with clothes. It is the feeling one has when sitting on a chair that is too hard, in a room that is too brightly lit, before someone who has the power to define who you are through the filter of a form. The scene is suspended in a bureaucratic time, where routine devours every attempt at human connection. The protagonist presents himself in that state of extreme fragility that characterizes those who must justify their existence, piece by piece, before a tribunal of strangers. There is a desperate, almost unconscious attempt to communicate one's own diversity: the colors of one's skin, the complexity of one's scales, that iridescent shimmer that should tell a story of abyssal depths. And yet, before them, all of this fades. To those accustomed to stamping papers and sorting files, the being sitting before them is not an individual, but a code, a file to be closed, a case to be archived. The silence between the two parties is an unbridgeable abyss. There is no common language: on one side, the cold logic of predefined criteria; on the other, the visual and visceral language of someone trying to explain, without words, that their pain does not lie within the pre-printed lines of a document. The embarrassment becomes a heavy cloak. One feels exposed, analyzed like a specimen in a laboratory, while one's dignity is weighed in a matter of minutes. When one rises and leaves, the bitter feeling remains of not having been understood at all, leaving behind only a trail of paper, indifferent and silent.