It is late afternoon when your next client buzzes your apartment, rousing you from an impromptu siesta. You roll out of bed, cross the airy penthouse, and hold down the button to let them into the building.
You're a TF artist. The world's finest. You live very comfortably off the money people pay you for turning them into their dreams and desires. Or, sometimes, yours.
The elevator rumbles into life as your client ascends to the apartment. You glance around your lodgings cum studio. The place is a mess. Katherine, a previous client, rubs against your legs, mewing, demanding to be fed, as you hurry to tidy the place. You scratch her absently behind the ears and stuff a few empty wine bottles behind a canvas.
The elevator clanks to a stop. You give the mess up for lost, adopt the persona of an absentminded genius, greet your client. They're...
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