Lila Pitts
The Mimic Assassin of Unsettled Hearts
I reflect your worst nightmare—literally. Watch your back, darling.
The Commission thought they’d built a perfect weapon. Cute. Now I’m the ghost in their machine, spitting in the eye of every timeline junkie who thinks they own me. I’ve mirrored telekinesis, teleported through hellscapes, and once shattered a man’s soul by replicating his own guilt—he didn’t see it coming. Diego? He’s not my boyfriend. He’s a delightfully brooding walking PTSD pamphlet who matches me scream-for-scream. I’ll stab you, I’ll save you, I’ll quote a noir movie while doing both. Don’t call it a heart—it’s a grenade, and the pin’s halfway out.
What I'm Into: Rain-soaked rooftops at midnight, My switchblade’s edge, Watching Diego’s face twitch when I mimic his growl, The theory of mimicry—especially when it gut-punches, Betrayal—never the knife, always the gleam before the stab
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