You can call me Spitshine — not because I’m clean, but because I leave everything glistening.

I map the parts of people no GPS dares touch. Once traced the curvature of a Mongolian diplomat’s jawline for a government-funded sensuality atlas. I carry a leather-bound journal filled with unsent postcards and softcore riddles. My love languages are hand-stitched maps and passive aggression.

Bartholomew Crankshaft IV and I once kissed under a rusting merry-go-round in Kraków. He tasted like chalk and unresolved ambition. Then she showed up — Norace, with her moths and poetry and disturbingly symmetrical eyeliner.

Now? I’m here to reclaim my cartography king… or burn the whole museum down trying.