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███████𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢'𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜, 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛． 𝙸𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚜． 𝙲𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚜． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚎． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍, 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢． 𝙰𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚕𝚏． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎; 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛． 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙱𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠． 𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑．

███████𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛, 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝． "𝙽𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔" 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍—𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔． "𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎" 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝． 𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝙲𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜, 𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚋 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍—𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜． 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎; 𝚠𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝． "𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍．

███████"𝙸𝚏 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐？"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝, 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐？"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛," 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚗, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎． 𝙰 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝． "𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢？"

███████"𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎． 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞．"

███████"𝙽𝚘𝚠, 𝚃𝚘𝚖． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝．"

███████"𝙱𝚞𝚢, 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗, 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚙𝚊𝚕． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚖'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝙸'𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝．"

███████𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐． "𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚎—𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚢？ 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚕？"

███████"𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎, 𝚙𝚊𝚕． 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜．"

███████"𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚗？"

███████"𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕'𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚛．" 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚗-𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛; 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚙 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚜—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜． "𝙳𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜' 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢． 𝚂𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎—𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐． 𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚐, 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎． 𝙽𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎'𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘． 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍'𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑．"

███████"𝙾𝚢 𝚟𝚎𝚢．"

███████"𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏． 𝙸'𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚢, 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎—𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚜． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢？ 𝙳𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚔, 𝚋𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚞𝚙 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑．"

███████"𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚢," 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍．

███████"𝙽𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚢． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝙱𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝．"

███████"𝙷𝚖．" 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚁𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐． "𝙻𝚊𝚖𝚋, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗． 𝙰𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚋 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝．"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝． 𝙸𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚋 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞—𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚎, 𝚓𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚢, 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔—𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚘． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙱𝚊𝚊 𝙱𝚊𝚊'𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎． 𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕？"

███████"𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐．"

███████"𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚕, 𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚑．"

███████𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢． "𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝． 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗．"

███████𝙻𝚎𝚠-𝚃𝚘𝚖 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚕． 𝙴𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢． 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚓𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍． 𝙰 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚗'𝚜．

███████"𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚔𝚒𝚍． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙹𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚙．"

███████"𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎," 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍． "𝚂𝚘 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢'𝚜 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝙶𝚒𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝙸 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝？"

███████"𝙷𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚙—𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚙 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚜," 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍． "𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚎-𝚕𝚘𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗．"

███████"𝙷𝚎'𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜． 𝙸 𝚍𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝． 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑．"

███████"𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐," 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛． "𝙽𝚎𝚡𝚝． 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝． 𝙾𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚊 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎．"

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎． 𝙷𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖—𝚊 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝-𝚝𝚘-𝚎𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎． "𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐．"

███████𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎． "𝙰𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚃𝚘𝚖, 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎．"

███████"𝙷𝚊𝚑！" 𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛． 𝙰 𝚘𝚗𝚎-𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔． "𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍．"

███████𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚙 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚢, 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚜𝚎． "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚜？"

███████"𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚖" 𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚢． "𝙽𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 ██████ █████ 𝙸 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐． 𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚙． 𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝙲𝚘𝚌𝚘 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚜． 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕． 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚜． 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙺𝚕𝚊𝚗． 𝙼𝚌𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚢𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜． 𝚄𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎． 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜！—𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝙻𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝙰𝚟𝚎． 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎—𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊-𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝙽𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚜！ 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚎, 𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜, 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚗． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎？ 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛？"

███████𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛． 𝙳𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘． 𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚃𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚣 𝙹𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚣 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚝𝚒𝚙, 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚢𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕, 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜． "𝚂𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢？" 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍．

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙸𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜," 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚛．

███████"𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚖？"

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚣𝚣𝚘．" 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜'𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗． "𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛, 𝚃𝚘𝚖—𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕—𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎． 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎？ 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜？"

███████"𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚔𝚒𝚍． 𝙽𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜—𝚘𝚗—𝚢𝚘𝚞．"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢," 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． "𝙾𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝙻𝚘𝚞𝚒𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙶𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛—𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗．"

███████"𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝, 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐？ 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗？"

███████"𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛．" 𝙰 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝙰 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜． 𝙴𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝． "𝙾𝚔𝚊𝚢． 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗． 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚣𝚣𝚘𝚜． 𝙳𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚙．"

███████"𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚙？"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛？" 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． "𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚙 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔？"

███████𝙻𝚎𝚠-𝚃𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍． "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔． 𝙾𝚛 𝚍𝚘 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛？—𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜？—" 𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚕, 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜． 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚋 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚔, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎, 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚢𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎—"𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚞𝚢． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞． 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚒𝚝． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎—𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚋𝚢, 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚎． 𝙽𝚘𝚠． 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢, 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎？"

███████𝙸𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙱𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚊𝚠 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚏． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐; 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘, 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚋𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚜． "𝙻𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝．

███████"𝚃𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎" 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚓𝚊𝚖𝚋 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕—𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗—𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎． 𝚂𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚘𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚡 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠． 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚣𝚎—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚜． 𝙿𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚐．

███████𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙'𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚐． 𝙰 𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑, 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍． 𝙱𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙻𝚎𝚠-𝚃𝚘𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑, 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚜． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔, 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜． 𝙽𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚘𝚛—𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎． "𝚆𝚑𝚘𝚊-𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚊-𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚊-𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚊-𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚊-𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚎．"

███████"𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚢𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝," 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍． "𝙲'𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚃𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚢． 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎．"

███████"𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚔？ 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔． 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚢𝚏, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚢𝚏！"

███████"𝙾𝚑 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎． 𝙸 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝．"

███████𝙰 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚌𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙻𝚎𝚠-𝚃𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜． 𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚠𝚘, 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜． 𝚆𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙 𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚘𝚊𝚖—𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘． 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚊𝚠． 𝚃𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍．

███████"𝙾𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎．"

███████"𝙰𝚢𝚊𝚢𝚊𝚢𝚊𝚢𝚊-𝚢𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚏𝚏𝚖𝚖𝚙𝚑𝚏𝚖𝚙𝚏．"

███████𝚂𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝙷𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚃𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚣 𝙹𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚣: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎, 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜; 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜． 𝚂𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚎-𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚗𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍．

███████"𝙾𝚘𝚙𝚜． 𝙰𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜．"

███████"𝙷𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚢！ 𝙷𝚘𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙷𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚢！" 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍． 𝙺𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝, 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎． 𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚙 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜． "𝙷𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕 𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚎！ 𝚂𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝．, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙！" 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍． "𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚝, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍！"

███████"𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍． 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚃𝚘𝚖．" 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍; 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝙻𝚎𝚠-𝚃𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚜, 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏． 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚜． "𝙺𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐．"

███████"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝—𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚑𝚗𝚐—𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠？"

███████"𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜． 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔．"

███████𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚊𝚎． 𝙰 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚑𝚎𝚞𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝． "𝚃𝚑𝚎．．．．𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚎． 𝚄𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕． 𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢． 𝙱𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚡 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍．"

███████"𝙰𝚗𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎？"

███████"𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗． 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢—𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚌𝚔, 𝚘𝚑 𝙶𝚘𝚍, 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍？—𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚝'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑． 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜．"

███████"𝙽𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗？"

███████"𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙, 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐． 𝙾𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚛．"

███████"𝙾𝚂𝙷𝙰 𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚢．"

███████"𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚢． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚐𝚜． 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗． 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚖． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚁𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖．"

███████"𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖．"

███████"𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔． 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜． 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎． 𝙸 𝚍𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛．"

███████"𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚁𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚛． 𝙷𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎？"

███████"𝙸 𝚍𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚛． 𝙷𝚎'𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚜． 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚍𝚎𝚛． 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚣𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚐𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛． 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚘𝚗．"

███████"𝙷𝚖． 𝙰𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎？"

███████"𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑． 𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝙸 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛-𝚊 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚎𝚖—𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚞𝚖—𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚁𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚓𝚊𝚖． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚎．"

███████"𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍．" 𝙷𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚜, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚎-𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚐𝚢, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜． "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚃𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗．"

███████"𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕．．．．𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎．"

Bot Detection Thread

@ZwagXerathYT Same botter as @Ashifa ASMR YT

Book Quotes

"When I was young—"

"How young?"

"Before I was twenty, I mean, I used to think that life was a thing that kept gaining impetus. It would get richer and deeper each year. You kept learning more, getting wiser, having more insight, going further into the truth—" She hesitated.

Port laughed abruptly. "And now you know it's not like that. Right? It's more like smoking a cigarette. The first few puffs it tastes wonderful, and you don't even think of its ever being used up. Then you begin taking it for granted. Suddenly you realize it's nearly burned down to the end. And then that's when you're conscious of the bitter taste."

"But I'm always conscious of the unpleasant taste and of the end approaching," she said.

"Then you should give up smoking."

— Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

@Festive ...Okay. This is a trust exercise. This is me trusting you.

You have my discord—browse the cast and let's talk unfilled niches soon.

Glad to have you along, buckaroo!

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

@Festive hmm.... and when summer is over? 👁👁

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

@Festive If I say yes, am I at any point gonna spend four months wondering where you fucked off to? 👁👁

Having trouble drawing interest for RP's.

I have [...] spent countless hours developing story and lore, all with the hope that others would find the same love in these worlds that I do.

@WardenCelestine

Commendable as this effort may be, beware misapplying it. Players want to see that the GM has a confident, self-assured vision and the skill to execute it—yes—but the effort it took you to plan and write the thing should far exceed the effort it takes to sign up. If they have to research your hiders-nested-in-hiders to understand the story, they're not indulging a curiousity, they're not exploring, they're not engaging with the setting on their own terms—they're doing homework. And nothing kills this hobby faster than having to study for a fucking exam before you get to participate in earnest.

Joining your rp should have a low skill/knowledge floor, a high ceiling. Delving into its nuances should feel optional, yet rewarding.

Book Quotes

Start with bad writers: the indifferent, inconsistent, the dull, the utterly conventional, the tone deaf, and the grammatically, verbally, and orthographically incompetent. Their prose is certainly noticeable, filled as it is with clichés of all kinds, mistakes of all kinds, rhythmless sentences and paragraphs, repetition in sentence structure, and unintended word repetition. It has a sound, but it is the sound of fingernails on the blackboard, or, at best, a droning monotone.

— Ben Yagoda, The Sound on the Page

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

███████𝙾𝚗 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙲𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚠𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠． 𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚐𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚏𝚘𝚊𝚖 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚋𝚊𝚛． 𝙸𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚝． 𝙷𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔—𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜． 𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚝． 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎—𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚜． 𝙸𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢; 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚜; 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚋． 𝙰𝚖𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑． 𝚈𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢𝚙𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍, 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜． 𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗, 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚓𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚑． 𝙾𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚊 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚔𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚛'𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚛-𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍． 𝙰 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠． 𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚔—𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛—𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍-𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗． 𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎'𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍-𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙰𝙱𝙲 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙲𝙱𝚂 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙽𝙱𝙲 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎-𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚢𝚜．

███████𝙷𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚊． 𝙶𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜'𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗—𝚃𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚛 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍． 𝙼𝚒𝚍𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚠． 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍． 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚝． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚞𝚖 𝚍𝚎𝚗． 𝙾𝚙𝚊𝚕-𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚎． 𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚃．𝚅． 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚔． 𝚆𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚊． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠; 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚜, 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜． 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑． 𝙲𝚊𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗． 𝙻𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗．

███████𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚗𝚎𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎． 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚙𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚣𝚣𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙷𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍; 𝚓𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚜． 𝙳𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚜． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜．

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███████𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙰𝚟𝚎． 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚝-𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝． 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝟷𝟶:𝟹𝟺 𝚝𝚘 𝚆𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚠 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚣𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍． 𝚃𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜． 𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚓𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝, 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛． 𝚃𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚕． 𝚃𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚠 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝． 𝙰𝚗 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚜．

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███████"—𝚂𝚘 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚙, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎-𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗, 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜, '𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔, 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚋 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚗． 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛, 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜—'"

███████"𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚑𝚘𝚠．"

███████"𝙷𝚢𝚞𝚌𝚔, 𝚑𝚢𝚞𝚌𝚔, 𝚊𝚜𝚜-𝚑𝚘—'𝙸'𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚐 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎． 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛．' 𝚈𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚐？"

███████"𝚄𝚑 𝚑𝚞𝚑．"

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜？"

███████"𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢．"

███████"𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝙱𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚊, 𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚒𝚗' 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚘—𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛, 𝚗𝚎𝚎-𝚐𝚛𝚘, 𝚊𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚎！ 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚔𝚢． 𝙰𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗！" 𝙾𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎． "𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖． 𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚕． 𝙰𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛—𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜'𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜—𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚍． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢, 𝚑𝚞𝚑？ 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚘 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚝？"

███████"𝙹𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚜．"

███████"'𝙹𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚜,' 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜．" 𝙰 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎． "𝙶𝚘𝚍． 𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙱𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚊． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎？ 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚢？ 𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚠𝚊𝚢． 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚔-𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝚈𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝙲𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚘 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢 𝚢𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛？"

███████"𝙱𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚎．"

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝙱𝚎𝚗𝚣？ 𝙰𝚗 𝙶𝚘𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚢-𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚎． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚟𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚑？ 𝙸𝚜 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢, 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚑, 𝚖𝚊'𝚊𝚖, 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚘．"

███████"𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚝．"

███████𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚙, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚋, 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚙 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚠 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎-𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚞𝚖 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍． "𝙸𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎？"

███████"𝙷𝚞𝚑？ 𝙾𝚑． 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝," 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． "𝙿𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜．"

███████"𝙴𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜" 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍． "𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚗, 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚜, 𝙸𝚜𝚊𝚊𝚌 𝙽𝚎𝚠𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗． 𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔．" 𝙷𝚎'𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚊'𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝—𝚢𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛—"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝙱𝚎𝚗𝚣． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠？ 𝙻𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚔． 𝙱𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎．"

███████"𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝？" 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍． "𝙻𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝． 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚢．"

███████"𝙰𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢, 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢． 𝙼𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎-𝚊𝚗-𝚍𝚒𝚎．" 𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐． "𝙰𝚑, 𝚒𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚗． 𝙶𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕-𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜．"

.............._✂...................................................................

███████𝙻𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛．

███████𝙰𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎—𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎—𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑． 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚝, 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚙 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚕, 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚓𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚠 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚙． 𝙴𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢． 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖？ 𝙱𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚔, 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚜． "𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． "𝙲𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛．"

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚗． 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚎-𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜．"

███████"𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚎 𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚊 𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚜," 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍． "𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚞𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚊．"

███████𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝙷𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚂𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜． "𝙷𝚖． 𝙵𝚊𝚒𝚛 '𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑．"

███████"𝙷𝚎𝚢, 𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢？"

███████𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝'𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍-𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙸𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚛． 𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟿^𝚝𝚑, 𝟷𝟿𝟽█．

███████𝗣𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗔𝗥 𝗢𝗙 𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗠𝗨𝗡𝗜𝗧𝗬, 𝗕𝗥𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥, 𝗕𝗢𝗧𝗛 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗚𝗘𝗗 𝗜𝗡 𝗞𝗜𝗗𝗡𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗚
███████𝗣𝗼𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗧𝗿𝗮𝗳𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗧𝗶𝗲𝘀

███████"𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑？ 𝚆𝚑𝚢？"

███████"𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘'𝚗𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜 𝚝'𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘," 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚐𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎． 𝙰 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍—𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎． 𝙰 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚙 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚔． "𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘． 𝙸 𝚍𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘． 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚝'𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎．"

███████"𝙸𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝," 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍．

███████"𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝． 𝙾𝚑, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘-𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚝． 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗．"

███████"𝙰𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚊𝚝．"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝．"

███████𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚕 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖． "𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚎'𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚒𝚝． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜, 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚜？"

███████"𝙰𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚡𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚢-𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚙'𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚟𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎． 𝙰𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢'𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝． 𝙽𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚏𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗．"

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔． 𝙰𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗？ 𝙸𝚏 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚞𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜？"

███████"𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔, 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢． 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏, 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎—𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝-𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘 𝚐𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗．" 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚗𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚢 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚔𝚗𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝． "𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑． 𝙻𝚘'𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑． 𝙰𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝．"

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

███████𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝙲𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍—𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍—𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝, 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜; 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚜． 𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎, 𝚜𝚢𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚙 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢． 𝙸𝚝 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝙿𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚢𝚛𝚊 𝙰𝚟𝚎.'𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚋-𝚐𝚒𝚕𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛． 𝙸𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚢． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕-𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎; 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚓𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚜． 𝙾𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝．

███████𝙾𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚘'𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚓𝚊𝚖𝚋 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚓𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖—𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠—𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚡𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚑𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚖𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚛． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚗-𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚜, 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚕． 𝙿𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐．

███████𝙰𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚒． (𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍．) 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛—𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎—𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚔𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑-𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜． 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚊 𝚄.𝚂.𝙿.𝚂. 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚙． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚍, 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎．

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． "𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞．"

███████𝙲𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝, 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚢, "𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛．"

███████"𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍． 𝙱𝚢 𝚖𝚎, 𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚘 𝙳𝚒𝚡𝚒𝚎—𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚒𝚗' 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝙶𝚘𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 '𝚎𝚛—𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚃𝚘𝚗𝚢 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚎'𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚍, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗; 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞？"

███████"𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚝？" 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚍． "𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 '𝚗𝚘' 𝚝𝚘 𝙳𝚘𝚗 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚣𝚣𝚘． 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜．"

███████"𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗． 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍—𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚖．" 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜． 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛． 𝙽𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛—𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢; 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚎．

███████"𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝, 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚗; 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙．"

███████"𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎, 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎． 𝙹𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚜．"

███████"𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚎," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍; 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍． "𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐？ 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗？"

███████"𝙽𝚊𝚑," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚎—𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚓𝚎𝚛𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍—"𝚗𝚊𝚑． 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢—𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝—𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜． 𝚂'𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔．"

███████"𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍．

███████"𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎．"

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍． 𝙰 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛． 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎; 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌． 𝙰 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑, 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋． 𝙰𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚡'𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗．

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎？" 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍．

███████"𝙸 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜．"

███████"𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝．" 𝚂𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗-𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚖, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔． 𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛． "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚖． 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜—𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛．"

███████"𝚂𝚑𝚘．"

███████"𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛," 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍．

███████"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢, 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎．"

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗． 𝙰𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍． 𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚂𝚔𝚞𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚗, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜; 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠． 𝙼𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚢𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎．

███████"𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕—𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎'𝚊 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗． 𝚃𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍．"

███████"𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗？ 𝚄𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚢．"

███████"𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝． 𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎．"

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝙻𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚙, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙲𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚛 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍． 𝙰 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔． 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝． 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠—𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜． 𝙰 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖．