The thing about Victor is that he doesn't walk anymore. He glides. Like a knife being drawn from its sheath—smooth, silent, inevitable.
I watched him from the corner of my eye as he sat across from me in that cheap diner on Sunset Boulevard. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sickly green pallor over everything. Victor's face was a map of scars, each one a story he'd never tell. His eyes were the worst part. They were the eyes of a man who had forgotten how to see people and only knew how to see targets. I used...
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