Strings attached

You know that feeling when the world smells faintly of pizza but tastes like ashes? Yeah, that’s my life on a Monday morning. But today? Today it smells like murder. I sip my black coffee, extra bitter, like my exes and glance at Sniper, who’s sitting on my desk, tail flicking like a metronome. “Ready…

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, the claw marks on my Jaguar, and the lingering smell of eau-de-blood on my favorite black leather gloves. Monday started with coffee and a reminder from Martin Flores that bureaucracy loves excuses but not…

The Houdini code

I never liked mornings. Mostly because the sun insists on reminding me I have a beating heart. And hearts are overrated. But there I was, perched on the edge of my black leather couch, Sniper stretching like a tiny, judgmental tiger across my lap, sipping bitter espresso from a chipped mug that says “World’s Okayest…

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. But instead, here I am, perched on the edge of my black leather couch, Sniper sprawled across the coffee table like a furry little aristocrat, plotting his next assassination of a dust…

The last hand of the mob

Sniper thinks I’m crazy. He’s curled on the window sill like some judgmental sphinx, tail flicking every time I sigh. But the truth? He’s right. I probably am. The city sleeps in neon smears and cigarette smoke. My Jaguar hums like it’s eager to kill someone, which, between us, is closer to the truth than…

Nine lives and a bullet

I woke to Sniper sitting on my chest, tail flicking like a tiny metronome of judgment. His green eyes bore into mine as if to say, You think you’re smarter than the city. Cute. “Coffee first,” I muttered, swatting him gently. Sniper responded by kneading my chest with talon-sharp claws. I winced, grabbed the blanket,…

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. By night, it smelled like blood, gunpowder, and something disturbingly like burnt waffles. Sniper, my partner in crime and I mean literally, was sprawled across my desk. He gave…

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.“Fine,” I said, staring at his judgmental yellow eyes. “I screwed up. Again.” He blinked. Typical. No sympathy. By day, I’m supposed to help people. Rehabilitation through empathy, as my oh-so-moral dissertation once claimed….

The cat, the corpse, and the Jag

The thing about murderers is they always smell faintly of arrogance. Like cheap aftershave and regret. Today started with a group therapy session. Convicts, ex-cons, the occasional sociopath who thinks therapy is a two-for-one coupon on redemption. I asked them to name one thing they regret. “Getting caught,” one muttered. That’s when I remembered why…

Kiss of death, cherry red

Morning started with coffee strong enough to dissolve a spoon. Sniper, my cat, glared at me from the counter like he knew I’d forgotten to refill his gourmet tuna stash. He blinked once. Judging. Cats are basically furry FBI profilers, minus the paperwork. Then came the call.“Doc Akerman?” My patient, Leila, sounded like a blender…