The mirror in the bar on Dame Street showed him a man who was not quite himself. Seán O'Connor saw this every night, the way a man sees his own shadow—present, familiar, but never quite trusted.
The scar on his face was not from a snake. It was from a blade, three years ago, in a psych ward in Tallaght, when a patient had turned on him and he had turned on himself. A mistake. A breakdown. A license revoked. The scar was the receipt. But some nights, in some bars, in some mirrors, the scar moved. Not much. Just a ripple, like something underneath the skin was breathing. He told himself...
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