Nobody

6

Dust devils danced across the ochre plains, mirroring the frantic flutter of butterflies surrounding the chrome sheen of his exposed neck. He was a paradox: Nobody. A cowboy silhouette against a sky bruised with twilight, the crimson heart nestled in his beige hat pulsed with a light that echoed the raw, beating organ visible in the center of his chiseled chest. Not wires and cold steel, but a living, throbbing thing. He smirked, framed by the delicate blossoming roses, creating a stark contrast to his cold steel cybernetic arms. The air thrummed with a silent energy. He leaned against a weathered headstone, its stark epitaph, "Nobody was faster," a chilling whisper against the warmth of his gaze. His stubble, a shadow against the sculpted lines of his jaw, caught the blinding light. He was a model of beauty, once captured in glossy prints, now etched with a raw, untamed allure. His bare chest, a canvas of flesh and gleaming metal, rose and fell with a breath you could almost feel. The butterflies, iridescent wings flickering, seemed to guide your gaze to the ruby heart in his hat, then down to the living one beating in his chest. A silent invitation. A question. The air crackled. He shifted, a slow, deliberate movement that drew your attention to the intricate, almost organic, cybernetic workings of his arms. The flowers and butterflies moved with him, a living tapestry against the cool steel.