He ran faster.
The pain was exquisite. Each stride sent a fresh wave of trapped heat radiating outward. It wasn't the clean ache of a working muscle; it was a betrayal from the very surface that held him together. He wanted to stop, to claw at his shirt, to rip his own skin off to let the pressure escape. clogged sweat glands
It wasn’t a dramatic burst, not a flood. It was a fizzle. A single, tiny pore on the back of his neck, one that had been stubbornly sealed, popped open with a sensation like a microscopic champagne cork. A single, cool, perfect bead of sweat trickled down his spine. He ran faster
“Dead skin cells, bacteria, your own salt. They’ve formed little plugs. The sweat is trapped under your skin. It’s leaking into the dermis and causing an inflammatory reaction.” It wasn't the clean ache of a working
The sweat wasn’t coming.