The Final Crop

Arthur, a perfectionist portrait photographer, sat alone in his dim studio, scrutinizing the woman's face on the display in front of him. "The skin texture, the lighting... it's a masterpiece," he whispered, caressing the cheek on the screen. "But the composition is off. The neck is too heavy. It ruins the framing." With a calm, satisfied smile, he picked up his scalpel and slit his own throat.