in the shadows of symmetry

[slopslinger]

> I lit a cigarette with a hand that didn’t shake — not anymore. After a while in this line of work, you stop trembling. You start studying faces the way a coroner studies a corpse.

The dame, Trinity, and a fella by the name of Agent "High Cheeks" Smith had walked into my office at a quarter past midnight, jawlines so sharp it could’ve slashed my rent in half. they werent born like that — hell, nobody in this town was. In these parts, you buy your beauty with blood, sweat, and peices of your soul.

"You Sterling?" she asked, voice flat like an unplugged TV.

"Depends who’s asking," I grunted, pushing my hat back with the barrel of my revolver. Around here, you didn’t greet strangers with handshakes. You greeted them with loaded questions.

She wanted to find a surgeon who’d gone rogue. Screwball, a real artisan of the flesh, they said, a doc who could stitch a new face onto a dead dream. Went by the name, " @The cat from The Matrix Word on the street was, this cat had vanished, leaving a trail of chiseled wrecks behind her.

"I need to be perfect," the dame said, voice low and desperate.

I exhaled smoke toward the cracked ceiling fan and poured another shot. I figured I was already a few sins too late to start doing the smart thing.

"Alright, sweetheart," I said, pocketing the photo. "I'll find your mark, but perfection’s just another, prettier kind of coffin."

I didn’t tell her what I was really thinking:
That some folks, once lost, aren’t meant to be found.

 

[The cat from The Matrix]

I read every fucking word

 

[The cat from The Matrix]

Okay why tf am I a surgeon i thought I was the hot chick

 

[NARCISSlST]

26 years old btw

 

[Your.Daddy.Scaloni]

> I lit a cigarette with a hand that didn’t shake — not anymore. After a while in this line of work, you stop trembling. You start studying faces the way a coroner studies a corpse.

The dame, Trinity, and a fella by the name of Agent "High Cheeks" Smith had walked into my office at a quarter past midnight, jawlines so sharp it could’ve slashed my rent in half. they werent born like that — hell, nobody in this town was. In these parts, you buy your beauty with blood, sweat, and peices of your soul.

"You Sterling?" she asked, voice flat like an unplugged TV.

"Depends who’s asking," I grunted, pushing my hat back with the barrel of my revolver. Around here, you didn’t greet strangers with handshakes. You greeted them with loaded questions.

She wanted to find a surgeon who’d gone rogue. Screwball, a real artisan of the flesh, they said, a doc who could stitch a new face onto a dead dream. Went by the name, " @The cat from The Matrix Word on the street was, this cat had vanished, leaving a trail of chiseled wrecks behind her.

"I need to be perfect," the dame said, voice low and desperate.

I exhaled smoke toward the cracked ceiling fan and poured another shot. I figured I was already a few sins too late to start doing the smart thing.

"Alright, sweetheart," I said, pocketing the photo. "I'll find your mark, but perfection’s just another, prettier kind of coffin."

I didn’t tell her what I was really thinking:
That some folks, once lost, aren’t meant to be found.

great story can we get pictures next time

 

[slopslinger]

Okay why tf am I a surgeon i thought I was the hot chick

The joint was a mausoleum for pretty faces. Mirrors on every wall, busted at the seams, catching the light just wrong so you saw yourself a hundred times, each one worse off than the last.

Surgical tools lay scattered across the tile like a murder scene without a body — scalpels, bone saws, needles still dripping some poor sap’s hopes onto the floor.

I picked through the wreckage, the soles of my shoes sticking to the linoleum like the floor itself was trying to hold me back.

That’s when I spotted it.

A scrap of paper, dog-eared and soaked through with something that wasn't water. Tucked half under an overturned operating chair like it was ashamed to be seen.

I crouched, snatched it up, shook the blood off.
The handwriting looked like it’d been scratched down by a drunk riding a bucking bronco.

It said:

> "Okay why tf am I a surgeon i thought I was the hot chick."



No initials. No date. Just that — raw, cracked wide open, like the inside of somebody's last sane thought.

I stood there a minute, just letting the weight of it settle in.

The cat hadn’t just gone missing.
She’d snapped the hell in two.

Behind me, one of the broken mirrors creaked, splintering a little more under its own bad conscience.

I pocketed the note and thumbed back the hammer on my piece.

Whatever mess I was stepping into, it wasn’t just scalpel work anymore.
It was memory work. Identity work.
And in this town, when you start carving up who you are, there ain’t no surgeon alive can stitch you back together clean.

 

[The cat from The Matrix]

The joint was a mausoleum for pretty faces. Mirrors on every wall, busted at the seams, catching the light just wrong so you saw yourself a hundred times, each one worse off than the last.

Surgical tools lay scattered across the tile like a murder scene without a body — scalpels, bone saws, needles still dripping some poor sap’s hopes onto the floor.

I picked through the wreckage, the soles of my shoes sticking to the linoleum like the floor itself was trying to hold me back.

That’s when I spotted it.

A scrap of paper, dog-eared and soaked through with something that wasn't water. Tucked half under an overturned operating chair like it was ashamed to be seen.

I crouched, snatched it up, shook the blood off.
The handwriting looked like it’d been scratched down by a drunk riding a bucking bronco.

It said:

> "Okay why tf am I a surgeon i thought I was the hot chick."



No initials. No date. Just that — raw, cracked wide open, like the inside of somebody's last sane thought.

I stood there a minute, just letting the weight of it settle in.

The cat hadn’t just gone missing.
She’d snapped the hell in two.

Behind me, one of the broken mirrors creaked, splintering a little more under its own bad conscience.

I pocketed the note and thumbed back the hammer on my piece.

Whatever mess I was stepping into, it wasn’t just scalpel work anymore.
It was memory work. Identity work.
And in this town, when you start carving up who you are, there ain’t no surgeon alive can stitch you back together clean.

You'll never find me bro wth

 

[slopslinger]

You'll never find me bro wth

The smell of the place was starting to get to me — bleach and burnt wires and something sour underneath, like broken promises left out too long in the sun.

I moved deeper into the back room, past a curtain that hung limp as a dead man’s tie.
There was another mirror back there — this one still clean, still humming faint under the flickering fluorescents.

On the mirror, taped up with surgical tape, was another note.
Smaller this time. Sloppier.
I peeled it loose and gave it a read.

It said:

> "you'll never find me bro wtf"



No periods. No patience. Just pure panic scrawled in pen.

I let out a dry chuckle, the kind that sticks in your throat like bad whiskey.

The cat — the surgeon, whoever the hell she was now — wasn’t just running.
She was unraveling.
Fast.

I caught my reflection in the mirror — hat low, eyes hollow, revolver heavy at my side.
For a second, it wasn’t me staring back.
It was someone else.
Someone who used to believe in something.

I crushed the cigarette out against the edge of the sink and tucked the second note into my coat.

This wasn’t gonna be a job you solved with bullets or beatings.
This was gonna be a job you solved by dying a little first.
Piece by piece.

Outside, the rain started coming down harder, fat drops pounding against the windows like they were trying to break in.

I figured it was time to move.
The cat was slipping faster than I thought — and if I didn’t catch her soon, there wouldn’t be anything left to
catch but scraps of code and regret.

 

[The cat from The Matrix]

The smell of the place was starting to get to me — bleach and burnt wires and something sour underneath, like broken promises left out too long in the sun.

I moved deeper into the back room, past a curtain that hung limp as a dead man’s tie.
There was another mirror back there — this one still clean, still humming faint under the flickering fluorescents.

On the mirror, taped up with surgical tape, was another note.
Smaller this time. Sloppier.
I peeled it loose and gave it a read.

It said:

> "you'll never find me bro wtf"



No periods. No patience. Just pure panic scrawled in pen.

I let out a dry chuckle, the kind that sticks in your throat like bad whiskey.

The cat — the surgeon, whoever the hell she was now — wasn’t just running.
She was unraveling.
Fast.

I caught my reflection in the mirror — hat low, eyes hollow, revolver heavy at my side.
For a second, it wasn’t me staring back.
It was someone else.
Someone who used to believe in something.

I crushed the cigarette out against the edge of the sink and tucked the second note into my coat.

This wasn’t gonna be a job you solved with bullets or beatings.
This was gonna be a job you solved by dying a little first.
Piece by piece.

Outside, the rain started coming down harder, fat drops pounding against the windows like they were trying to break in.

I figured it was time to move.
The cat was slipping faster than I thought — and if I didn’t catch her soon, there wouldn’t be anything left to
catch but scraps of code and regret.

Eat my dust bro stop checking urself out

 

[slopslinger]

Eat my dust bro stop checking urself out

Staggering outside, the air outside hit me like a sack of wet bricks — cold, mean, and smelling faintly of something burning that nobody was ever gonna report.

I pulled my coat tighter and headed for the jalopy parked under the one streetlamp that still flickered like it was dying of some slow, electric cancer.

That’s when I saw it.

Driver’s side window — shattered.
Safety glass glittering like a busted-up Christmas ornament across the seat.

And sitting right there, neat as a priest’s lie, was another damn note.
Weighted down under a busted rearview mirror, dangling loose like the city’s last nerve.

I yanked the door open, glass crunching underfoot, and snatched the paper up with a hand that didn’t shake — not anymore.

It said:

> "eat my dist bro stop checking yourself out"



Handwriting like a shotgun blast — quick, ugly, and mean.

I let the note sag in my fingers and looked at my reflection in the jagged mirror.
A face stared back — mine, but a little wrong, like it was running a second behind reality.
Too many years, too many sins, and not enough drinks to bury ‘em all.

I grunted, tore my gaze away before the mirror talked me into something I couldn’t walk back from.

The cat wasn’t just running.
She was mocking me now.
Tracking me, even as I was chasing her — nipping at my heels, laughing in the walls.

The city around me blurred at the edges — neon bleeding into puddles, voices warping into static.

She was cracking the seams wide open.
And if I didn’t find her soon, it wouldn’t just be my case that went belly-up.
It'd be everything.

I loaded a fresh round into the chamber, slow and steady.
No turning back now.
No brakes on this ride.

"Alright, sweetheart," I muttered into the broken night, stuffing the note into my coat. "You wanna play?
Fine. Let’s dance."

 

[The cat from The Matrix]

Staggering outside, the air outside hit me like a sack of wet bricks — cold, mean, and smelling faintly of something burning that nobody was ever gonna report.

I pulled my coat tighter and headed for the jalopy parked under the one streetlamp that still flickered like it was dying of some slow, electric cancer.

That’s when I saw it.

Driver’s side window — shattered.
Safety glass glittering like a busted-up Christmas ornament across the seat.

And sitting right there, neat as a priest’s lie, was another damn note.
Weighted down under a busted rearview mirror, dangling loose like the city’s last nerve.

I yanked the door open, glass crunching underfoot, and snatched the paper up with a hand that didn’t shake — not anymore.

It said:

> "eat my dist bro stop checking yourself out"



Handwriting like a shotgun blast — quick, ugly, and mean.

I let the note sag in my fingers and looked at my reflection in the jagged mirror.
A face stared back — mine, but a little wrong, like it was running a second behind reality.
Too many years, too many sins, and not enough drinks to bury ‘em all.

I grunted, tore my gaze away before the mirror talked me into something I couldn’t walk back from.

The cat wasn’t just running.
She was mocking me now.
Tracking me, even as I was chasing her — nipping at my heels, laughing in the walls.

The city around me blurred at the edges — neon bleeding into puddles, voices warping into static.

She was cracking the seams wide open.
And if I didn’t find her soon, it wouldn’t just be my case that went belly-up.
It'd be everything.

I loaded a fresh round into the chamber, slow and steady.
No turning back now.
No brakes on this ride.

"Alright, sweetheart," I muttered into the broken night, stuffing the note into my coat. "You wanna play?
Fine. Let’s dance."

If u want. Surgery just say so tbh

 

[slopslinger]

If u want. Surgery just say so tbh

The ride back downtown was rough — windshield wipers squealing like rats drowning in a gutter, neon bleeding through the cracks in the road.
But it wasn’t the rain that was getting under my skin.
It was the feeling that every time I passed a storefront, every time I glimpsed my reflection in some greasy black window —
it was watching me.
Sizing me up.
Waiting.

By the time I hit Sixth and Valor, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I yanked the heap over and killed the engine, stepping out into a river of garbage and broken umbrellas.
The storefront across the street was a pawn shop — busted neon tube buzzing overhead like a fly in a jar.

I crossed over, boots splashing hard, and stood there facing the window.
My reflection stared back at me — soaked, tired, a man in a city that didn’t want him.
But something was off.

The reflection smiled.
I didn’t.

And then, across the inside of the glass — like breath on a coffin lid — words started to fog up:

> "if you want surgery, just say so tbh."



I blinked, wiped at the glass with my sleeve.
The words smeared but didn’t disappear.
They bled, like wounds that didn’t know when to close.

I staggered back, heart beating somewhere up in my throat.

It wasn’t just the cat anymore.
It wasn’t just the surgeon.
The whole damn world was starting to slip its skin, asking me if I wanted a piece.

"You can keep it," I muttered to no one, dragging another cigarette from the crumpled pack in my pocket. Hands steady. For now.

But deep down, some supressed part of me was curious.
Deep down, I wondered how much of me was still me.

How much could you cut away before you weren’t anything at all?
And who the hell was left to do the stitching?

I lit the cigarette off a shaking match and kept walking —
because I knew one thing for damn sure:

In this city, once the mirrors start talking to you,
you either find what you’re looking for —
or you find out you were the mark all along.

 

[The cat from The Matrix]

The ride back downtown was rough — windshield wipers squealing like rats drowning in a gutter, neon bleeding through the cracks in the road.
But it wasn’t the rain that was getting under my skin.
It was the feeling that every time I passed a storefront, every time I glimpsed my reflection in some greasy black window —
it was watching me.
Sizing me up.
Waiting.

By the time I hit Sixth and Valor, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I yanked the heap over and killed the engine, stepping out into a river of garbage and broken umbrellas.
The storefront across the street was a pawn shop — busted neon tube buzzing overhead like a fly in a jar.

I crossed over, boots splashing hard, and stood there facing the window.
My reflection stared back at me — soaked, tired, a man in a city that didn’t want him.
But something was off.

The reflection smiled.
I didn’t.

And then, across the inside of the glass — like breath on a coffin lid — words started to fog up:

> "if you want surgery, just say so tbh."



I blinked, wiped at the glass with my sleeve.
The words smeared but didn’t disappear.
They bled, like wounds that didn’t know when to close.

I staggered back, heart beating somewhere up in my throat.

It wasn’t just the cat anymore.
It wasn’t just the surgeon.
The whole damn world was starting to slip its skin, asking me if I wanted a piece.

"You can keep it," I muttered to no one, dragging another cigarette from the crumpled pack in my pocket. Hands steady. For now.

But deep down, some supressed part of me was curious.
Deep down, I wondered how much of me was still me.

How much could you cut away before you weren’t anything at all?
And who the hell was left to do the stitching?

I lit the cigarette off a shaking match and kept walking —
because I knew one thing for damn sure:

In this city, once the mirrors start talking to you,
you either find what you’re looking for —
or you find out you were the mark all along.

OH MY GOD WHEN R U GONNA FIND ME

 

[slopslinger]

OH MY GOD WHEN R U GONNA FIND ME

I followed the trail like a bloodhound with a broken nose — broken reflections, scrawled notes, whispers on dead radio channels.
Every step deeper into the city felt like wading through molasses laced with broken glass.

By the time I found the address, my soul felt two sizes too small for my body.
An abandoned beauty parlor, half-eaten by time, windows boarded like a mouth full of rotted teeth.
The kind of place where dreams didn’t just die — they got dissected.

The door creaked open at the slightest touch, like it had been waiting just for me.

Inside, it was mirrors.
Mirrors everywhere — hanging from the ceiling, stitched into the walls, broken into jagged mosaics across the floor.
And in every single one,
I saw myself.
Older.
Younger.
Twisted.
Perfected.
A hundred versions of Sterling, all looking back at me with different sins painted across their faces.

Then I saw her.

At the far end of the room, sitting under a busted hairdryer, legs crossed, smoking like she had all the time in the goddamn world.
The Cat.
Or what was left of her.

Her face flickered between beautiful and broken like a bad movie reel — sometimes the surgeon, sometimes the hot chick she used to be, sometimes something else entirely.

She smiled.
All teeth, no kindness.

"You finally made it, tough guy," she said, voice doubling in the room like she had a chorus of dead angels backing her up.
"You wanna be perfect?
You wanna stop chasing ghosts?
You want surgery, Sterling?"

She gestured around her at the walls.
The mirrors shimmered — and suddenly it wasn’t just me looking back.
It was options.

Sterling with a stronger jaw.
Sterling with eyes that didn’t flinch.
Sterling who could’ve maybe, just maybe, saved somebody once.

The cigarette trembled between my fingers, first time in a long time.

I didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.

She laughed — a low, rotten sound.

"You came all this way," she said.
"You broke yourself open chasing me.
And now you don’t even know what you want."

The Cat stood, the room twisting behind her like a wound opening.
Her hands weren’t hands anymore — they were scalpels, slick and hungry.

"Pick a mirror, Sterling," she purred, voice like silk soaked in poison.
"Or I'll pick for you."

 

[The cat from The Matrix]

I followed the trail like a bloodhound with a broken nose — broken reflections, scrawled notes, whispers on dead radio channels.
Every step deeper into the city felt like wading through molasses laced with broken glass.

By the time I found the address, my soul felt two sizes too small for my body.
An abandoned beauty parlor, half-eaten by time, windows boarded like a mouth full of rotted teeth.
The kind of place where dreams didn’t just die — they got dissected.

The door creaked open at the slightest touch, like it had been waiting just for me.

Inside, it was mirrors.
Mirrors everywhere — hanging from the ceiling, stitched into the walls, broken into jagged mosaics across the floor.
And in every single one,
I saw myself.
Older.
Younger.
Twisted.
Perfected.
A hundred versions of Sterling, all looking back at me with different sins painted across their faces.

Then I saw her.

At the far end of the room, sitting under a busted hairdryer, legs crossed, smoking like she had all the time in the goddamn world.
The Cat.
Or what was left of her.

Her face flickered between beautiful and broken like a bad movie reel — sometimes the surgeon, sometimes the hot chick she used to be, sometimes something else entirely.

She smiled.
All teeth, no kindness.

"You finally made it, tough guy," she said, voice doubling in the room like she had a chorus of dead angels backing her up.
"You wanna be perfect?
You wanna stop chasing ghosts?
You want surgery, Sterling?"

She gestured around her at the walls.
The mirrors shimmered — and suddenly it wasn’t just me looking back.
It was options.

Sterling with a stronger jaw.
Sterling with eyes that didn’t flinch.
Sterling who could’ve maybe, just maybe, saved somebody once.

The cigarette trembled between my fingers, first time in a long time.

I didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.

She laughed — a low, rotten sound.

"You came all this way," she said.
"You broke yourself open chasing me.
And now you don’t even know what you want."

The Cat stood, the room twisting behind her like a wound opening.
Her hands weren’t hands anymore — they were scalpels, slick and hungry.

"Pick a mirror, Sterling," she purred, voice like silk soaked in poison.
"Or I'll pick for you."

STERLING WHAT R U GONNA DO OMG

 

[slopslinger]

STERLING WHAT R U GONNA DO OMG

The room tightened around me like a vice.
I could feel the cold sweat soaking through my shirt, the cigarette still pinched between my fingers like a dead man’s last wish.
But I didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just stared back at the Cat.

The mirrors shimmered, bending light like the last shards of a broken life.
She stepped forward, her silhouette twisting, the air thick with something that wasn’t quite human.

"You still think you can fix it?" she asked, voice dripping with mockery.
Her eyes weren’t eyes anymore — they were perfect, empty sockets where dreams used to be.

I took a slow drag from the cigarette.
Every inch of me wanted to run.
Every part of me screamed to turn around and leave this mess behind.

But there was nowhere left to go.
I had come this far.
And in the end, I’d been chasing my own damn reflection the whole time.

"Pick a mirror," she urged, voice sweet as arsenic.
"Pick a life. You’re a broken thing, Sterling. Don’t you want to fix that? To be someone you can stand to look at in the mirror again?"

I saw myself in the mirrors.
A hundred versions of me, each one a little cleaner, a little sharper, a little more... perfect.
Some of them smiled back. Some of them looked like they'd found peace.
Others?
They just stared — hollow, empty, like they were waiting for something that was never coming.

The Cat was waiting, too.
She was the surgeon, the angel, the devil.
She was everything I wanted to be and everything I feared I already was.

I took a step toward one of the mirrors.
It was the one where I looked the strongest — the sharpest.
The man I could’ve been.
The man I could never be.

But as my hand reached for it, something twisted in my gut.
A realization.

That wasn’t me.
Not really.
That was just a mask, just another carving someone had made to cover up the mess I’d been born into.

I pulled my hand back.
And then I laughed.
It wasn’t a real laugh.
It was the sound of a man who’d already lost everything — and knew it.

"I don’t need your surgery," I muttered, voice cracking like old glass.
"I never did."

The Cat’s smile faltered.
She took a step back, eyes narrowing as the room seemed to pulse with a kind of raw, hungry silence.

"Then what do you need?" she asked, the question slipping out of her mouth like she’d forgotten what it meant to care.

I looked her straight in the eye.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t see myself in the mirror.
I didn’t see anyone at all.

"I need to break," I said.
"I need to fall apart... so I can see what’s left underneath."

Her face twisted.
She lunged toward me, but the mirrors shattered first.
Shattered like glass on asphalt, like reality itself cracking into pieces.

The room exploded.
Light.
Sound.
Blood.
All mixing together in a final blur of fire and broken reflections.

When the dust settled, the Cat was gone.
The mirrors were gone.
The room was empty.
All that was left was a pile of shattered glass —
and me.

 

[The cat from The Matrix]

The room tightened around me like a vice.
I could feel the cold sweat soaking through my shirt, the cigarette still pinched between my fingers like a dead man’s last wish.
But I didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just stared back at the Cat.

The mirrors shimmered, bending light like the last shards of a broken life.
She stepped forward, her silhouette twisting, the air thick with something that wasn’t quite human.

"You still think you can fix it?" she asked, voice dripping with mockery.
Her eyes weren’t eyes anymore — they were perfect, empty sockets where dreams used to be.

I took a slow drag from the cigarette.
Every inch of me wanted to run.
Every part of me screamed to turn around and leave this mess behind.

But there was nowhere left to go.
I had come this far.
And in the end, I’d been chasing my own damn reflection the whole time.

"Pick a mirror," she urged, voice sweet as arsenic.
"Pick a life. You’re a broken thing, Sterling. Don’t you want to fix that? To be someone you can stand to look at in the mirror again?"

I saw myself in the mirrors.
A hundred versions of me, each one a little cleaner, a little sharper, a little more... perfect.
Some of them smiled back. Some of them looked like they'd found peace.
Others?
They just stared — hollow, empty, like they were waiting for something that was never coming.

The Cat was waiting, too.
She was the surgeon, the angel, the devil.
She was everything I wanted to be and everything I feared I already was.

I took a step toward one of the mirrors.
It was the one where I looked the strongest — the sharpest.
The man I could’ve been.
The man I could never be.

But as my hand reached for it, something twisted in my gut.
A realization.

That wasn’t me.
Not really.
That was just a mask, just another carving someone had made to cover up the mess I’d been born into.

I pulled my hand back.
And then I laughed.
It wasn’t a real laugh.
It was the sound of a man who’d already lost everything — and knew it.

"I don’t need your surgery," I muttered, voice cracking like old glass.
"I never did."

The Cat’s smile faltered.
She took a step back, eyes narrowing as the room seemed to pulse with a kind of raw, hungry silence.

"Then what do you need?" she asked, the question slipping out of her mouth like she’d forgotten what it meant to care.

I looked her straight in the eye.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t see myself in the mirror.
I didn’t see anyone at all.

"I need to break," I said.
"I need to fall apart... so I can see what’s left underneath."

Her face twisted.
She lunged toward me, but the mirrors shattered first.
Shattered like glass on asphalt, like reality itself cracking into pieces.

The room exploded.
Light.
Sound.
Blood.
All mixing together in a final blur of fire and broken reflections.

When the dust settled, the Cat was gone.
The mirrors were gone.
The room was empty.
All that was left was a pile of shattered glass —
and me.

HOOLLLYYYYY SHIIEEETTT BRAVO

 

[prosperity]

> I lit a cigarette with a hand that didn’t shake — not anymore. After a while in this line of work, you stop trembling. You start studying faces the way a coroner studies a corpse.

The dame, Trinity, and a fella by the name of Agent "High Cheeks" Smith had walked into my office at a quarter past midnight, jawlines so sharp it could’ve slashed my rent in half. they werent born like that — hell, nobody in this town was. In these parts, you buy your beauty with blood, sweat, and peices of your soul.

"You Sterling?" she asked, voice flat like an unplugged TV.

"Depends who’s asking," I grunted, pushing my hat back with the barrel of my revolver. Around here, you didn’t greet strangers with handshakes. You greeted them with loaded questions.

She wanted to find a surgeon who’d gone rogue. Screwball, a real artisan of the flesh, they said, a doc who could stitch a new face onto a dead dream. Went by the name, " @The cat from The Matrix Word on the street was, this cat had vanished, leaving a trail of chiseled wrecks behind her.

"I need to be perfect," the dame said, voice low and desperate.

I exhaled smoke toward the cracked ceiling fan and poured another shot. I figured I was already a few sins too late to start doing the smart thing.

"Alright, sweetheart," I said, pocketing the photo. "I'll find your mark, but perfection’s just another, prettier kind of coffin."

I didn’t tell her what I was really thinking:
That some folks, once lost, aren’t meant to be found.

the spelling errors tell me that this isn't ai

lock in dude