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... t mirrors framed in tarnished brass reflected my own bloodless face back at me from three angles. A row of dusty wigs lined the far wall, each more moth-eaten than the last, and there was a singular, suspicious stain across the chaise lounge that I refused to identify. I sat cross-legged before a cracked vanity, brushing flecks of ash from my coat as a harried young man burst through the curtain.

"Sir! The script!"

He handed it to me like it might bite him. Thin paper. Clumsy ink ...

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Hazardous Gold Tier Winner of WFP#28

The art is not mine.
In case you want to contact me regarding anything related to my novels, feel free to do so.

A work of Fiction by a Fictional character.

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