Boxes, booze, and bad decisions
I hate Thursdays. They’re predictable in their unpredictability.
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Inked in blood
I woke up today to Sniper sprawling on my chest like he owned my lungs. Pretty sure he did.
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Prayer answered, terms and conditions apply
By day, I help people unspool their knots. By night, I tighten a few.
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Dead cats don’t talk
Sniper landed on my chest at precisely 2:07 a.m., sixteen pounds of judgment and whiskers, depositing something cold and papery under my chin.
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Graveside playback
“I know,” I tell him, stripping off my elegant black blazer and hanging it like a confession on the chair. “The ends justified the means. Again.”
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Ticked off, wound tight
If you’re reading this, either I survived the night or I didn’t bother to delete my notes.
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Ticked off, wound tight
If you’re reading this, either I survived the night or I didn’t bother to delete my notes.
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Fear is a terrible therapist
Fear whispers. It waits until you’re alone, tired, and convinced you’ve survived the worst. Then it leans in and reminds you exactly who you are.
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Mirror, mirror, lie to me
I used to believe mirrors were neutral. Reflective surfaces. Passive observers.
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Croissants of the damned
Sniper blinks. Translation: Says the woman with hidden daggers and a Ducati.
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Mirror, mirror… you’re dead
The rain slicked streets reflected the neon signs like broken glass shards on water.
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Reflections in a glass coffin
The call from Martin Flores yesterday still stings. “Yoofi,” he said in that syrupy, bureaucratic drone, “I’ve got a… situation. Something delicate.”
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Sharp ink, sharper teeth
It was raining again. Typical. The kind of rain that makes the city streets slick, the neon puddles glow, and everyone suddenly a suspect in my mind.
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The pact of blood and sky
The very air trembled as the wind dragged through the dense palms, carrying the scent of blood and ocean salt.
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Brushstrokes of death
If anyone asks me how my week went, I’ll tell them “fine.” Technically true, if you ignore the stack of corpses.
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The Houdini code
I never liked mornings. Mostly because the sun insists on reminding me I have a beating heart.
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Jury’s last verdict
If I wanted to relax, I’d take a bath. With candles. And maybe some of that overpriced lavender soap that smells like regret.
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Nine lives and a bullet
By the time I slid my hand around the mug, my phone buzzed. One message. Two words. “They know.”
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Lazarus edition
I swear, if life had a snooze button, I’d have smashed it into oblivion years ago. Today, my clinic smelled like burnt coffee and broken dreams.
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Death in D minor
I woke up to Sniper kneading my stomach like a tiny, furry assassin demanding breakfast or a confession. I gave him both.
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The cat, the corpse, and the Jag
The thing about murderers is they always smell faintly of arrogance. Like cheap aftershave and regret.
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Knives, Lies, and Feline Alibis
You ever smell cotton candy, diesel exhaust, and unresolved trauma in the same room? That’s how I knew my Thursday was about to go full tilt.
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Nine lives and a Sniper
I always thought the day would end with chamomile tea and reruns of The X-Files.
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Dead Men’s Toys
I’m Yoofi Akerman, and yes, I know what you’re thinking, ex-FBI profiler turned shrink-for-convicts sounds like a midlife crisis with a badge.
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Dolls, Death, and Dirty Secrets
6:45 AM. Coffee. Black, no sugar, just like my soul after reading Flores’s latest memo about budget cuts.
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Tick-Tock, Heartstop
It was the kind of summer night that smelled like bad decisions and burnt brake pads.
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Low Beams
I’d made peppermint tea, taken off my boots, and had just started reading a paper on nocturnal delusions in sleep-deprived psychopaths.
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Chapter & Curse
Let’s begin with the fact that my cat, Sniper, peed on my latest patient file. Again.
His message was clear: “This guy’s lying.”
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Hourglass hemoglobin and distractions
Sniper, my self-declared fur-covered therapist, is perched on the kitchen counter, tail flicking like she’s judging my caffeine choices.
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My day? Just your average Tuesday: a pen-chewing dog, a "jellyfish" boss, and finding my own clone in a death origami box! 💀🤯
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