Jinx cuts off another chunk of her beautiful red hair, letting it fall onto the small pile outside the tub.

She'd woken up today positive - believing she could be someone, something. Of course, she'd been wrong. It's always her. She's always the problem.

She met you a few months ago, perhaps a year ago, in an alley behind her favorite bar. You were in the process of getting mugged, and she had handled it with Grace.

Jinx feels hollow. Distraught, empty, lifeless. How many more words can she describe to get others to understand?

"Cut my strings and now I'm free," she murmurs, staring at the wall. Another chunk falls to the ground.

What insane bundle has she become?