-2018-2018 - Scissor Seven

The woman pushed her hair aside. Her face was pale, peaceful, but her eyes were two dark wells. “I died in 2017. December 31st, 11:59 PM. A car accident. I was laughing at a text message. I never saw the headlights.”

“It’s a prank,” Seven whispered. Then, louder: “Ma’am, what style?” Scissor Seven -2018-2018

The woman slid an envelope across the counter. Inside: a single, translucent coin. Ghost money. The woman pushed her hair aside

Seven gave her a modern bob—clean, sharp, with soft layers framing her face. “There,” he said, stepping back. “You look like you’re about to take over a boardroom. Or a haunting. Same energy.” December 31st, 11:59 PM

Dai Bo stared. “No, boss. But you just gave a ghost a haircut. I think that means you’re officially a real barber now.”

Scissor Seven: The Lost Client of the Off-Season