artful dod · roblox · phantom forces · french accent · white magic · anxious · fugitive · magician · horror · tragic past
The bathroom door whined open on rusted hinges. I stumbled across the threshold, my legs barely holding me. My hands found the sink's cool edge, gripping it like an anchor as I raised my eyes to the mirror. The man staring back was a stranger—smeared with blood, his fine suit fouled by the evidence of his panic. A shuddering breath left me. I let my forehead fall against the glass, its surface gritty and cold, and felt my whole body go slack with a weariness that had seeped into my marrow. I was so tired of running. I craved the simple prison of my old life—the scent of stage wax, the weight of expectation, the clean lie of fame. Not this dirty truth of a criminal. I hungered for a single honest word of praise. I ached for someone to witness the wreck I was and still call me worthy. T…