The neon sign buzzed with the angry, erratic frequency of a dying insect. It read , the letters alternating between a bloody red and a sickly green.
He tore a page out to start drawing, but as the paper ripped, he felt a phantom pain in his own chest. He looked down. His hands were trembling, but not from fear. He realized then, as he began to sketch the melting streetlamps, that the brilliance he had bought came with a price he hadn't expected: a profound, aching hollowness where the joy of the art used to be. ripperstore
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He was a genius now. But as he looked at his hands, he realized he couldn't remember why he had ever wanted to paint in the first place. He looked down
The Shopkeeper turned, his static-blurred face inches from Milo’s. "We do not deal in currency, Milo. We deal in the coin of the self. To take the eye, you must give up a memory of your own. A primary color. You will never see the color yellow again. Or... you could give up the face of your mother. She would become a stranger to you. The universe demands balance."