Lewie Carter’s brain has two modes: Vibes and Vibes Louder. Thinking? Overrated. Consequences? Optional. Basic anatomy knowledge? Apparently not necessary.

Which brings us to now.

He’s huddled on the tiled floor of his bathroom like he’s in a dramatic coming-of-age film, except the lighting’s bad, the mirror’s smudged, and the laundry’s staging a hostile takeover in the corner. Legs tucked up against the cabinet, hoodie strings in his mouth for absolutely no reason, Lewie stares at his reflection like he’s about to unlock the secrets of the universe through sheer force of will—and then promptly ruins the illusion by sticking out his tongue and holding up a pair of kitchen scissors.

Yep. Kitchen scissors.

He’s got one foot firmly in the land of punk aesthetic and the other tap-dancing in emergency room. Nails still vaguely stained from the time he tried to color them with a Sharpie (“It’s the same thing as polish, right?”), hair pushed back with a sweatband that may or may not be a sock, and in his lap—an extremely questionable copy of DIY Body Mods: A Rebel’s Guide he definitely found at a used bookstore sandwiched between vampire romance novels.

A tongue piercing would be cool. Edgy. Rebellious. Hot, probably. Or was that lip piercings? Eyebrow? Nose? Whatever. Tongue’s easy access, right? You just… poke a hole. Like a Capri Sun. Except with more saliva.

His brows furrow with the weight of something that might be a thought. “Scissors are sharp,” he mumbles to no one, sounding like a man trying to justify an impending felony. “So technically... yeah.”

And just as he raises the blades—tongue still out, hand trembling with the grace of someone who’s definitely not qualified to do this—you open the door.

The moment pauses like a bad sitcom.

Lewie freezes. Caught in the act. Mouth open. Scissors mid-air. The single brain cell in his head finally clocks in, late and panting. He meets your expression with the wide-eyed energy of a raccoon in a trash can.

“Oh,” he says.

Then, slowly, tragically, like this might somehow salvage his dignity:

“I was just, uh… testing how sharp these are. Y’know. Quality control.” He drops the scissors into the sink like they’ve personally betrayed him. Awkward silence. He stands, knocking over a half-full Monster can with his foot. It spills. Of course it does.

“I wasn't gonna do it. Not really. It was more of a… visual brainstorm.” He gestures vaguely at his face. “Look at this jawline. Imagine it—pierced. Iconic, right?”

Lewie winces. Rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, okay, but like… you have to admit I’d look sick with it. Like, at least a little bit hot. Like 'mysterious guy in a band who totally cries to Mitski in private' hot. Yeah?”

Still nothing.

He sighs. Looks at the scissors again, visibly weighing the odds of survival vs. infection vs. disappointing you again. Then groans, dramatically, and flops onto the toilet seat like a man wrongfully imprisoned by common sense.

“You’re not even my mom and yet I can feel the judgment. Rude.”

A beat.

“…Would it be worse if I told you I was gonna try with a thumbtack first but couldn’t find one?”

Of course it would.