callsign-scully

[callsign-scully]

whole masterlist is incredible!!!

Main Masterlist

(updated after every new post)

PINK indicates 18+ — BLACK indicates SFW

please note ** if you spam like without reblogging i have to block on principle, that’s not a cool thing to do

Keep reading

[callsign-scully]

TUMBLR 101: a helpful guide for tiktok refugees

are YOU a former tiktok user trying to learn how to use tumblr to fill the void the american tiktok ban is leaving in your soul? here are some things you should know, from someone who’s going on their eighth year on this hellsite:

1. you can say anything on here. gone are the days of having to use words like “unalive” and “seggs.” murder! kill! sex! fuck! speak your mind!

2. there is a community for you on here. regardless of what you’re into or however small the fandom is, you have a place here. at least one other person will have heard of your weird obscure interest. strike up a conversation!

3. followers don’t matter. tumblr is one of the last remaining social media sites in which your number of followers means absolute jack shit. this can be disorienting at first, but once you lean into the fact that everyone on this website is equal, it’s very freeing. clout means nothing here.

4. similarly, you can post at any time. while tiktok has an algorithm that favors certain times, tumblr has no such algorithm. post whatever you want, whenever you want. every post has virtually the same chance at getting notes, regardless of when it is posted.

5. tags can have spaces between the words! this one is very exciting. tags can be a whole sentence. you can also use the tags to comment on someone’s post without actually adding onto the physical post itself (which is sometimes frowned upon and called “derailing” if you use this feature to bring up a completely different point other than the one that’s being made on the original post).

TL;DR: speak your mind, find your place, followers don’t matter, post anytime, have fun with tags!! tumblr is a wonderful site used to share things you’re excited about. be patient with yourself as you’re learning and have fun!

[callsign-scully]

my favorite thing about gladiator II fan fic is no one has collectively decided how to spell ‘colosseum’ yet. i think ive seen it at least 4 different ways?

[callsign-scully]

no cause what irks me is so I’m a guy and when I search like…. X male reader and :( then people posting x female reader under that tag….. I do NOT wnna have to look through allat

EXACTLY!!! it didn’t get crazy bad until the last year or so (i totally blame the twitter recruitment.) ao3 has gotten exceptionally bad as well. people don’t understand the difference between x reader and & reader which infuriates me!!

don’t even get me started on the people who tag it as a reader insert and then it’s clearly an OC.

basically, research the tag system before you use it folks—especially for fan fic!!!

[callsign-scully]

one of these days you guys will learn how to properly tag fan fic

[callsign-scully]

i’ve officially made it someone stole my fan fic and i can’t even do anything about it

[callsign-scully]

why did i never get notifications for the new requests in my inbox???

[callsign-scully]

be proud of me i actually edited and posted it within a day 🙏

finally finished a fic 🙏 it’s a jordan parrish x reader so be on the lookout for that soon

you can join my taglist here to be notified

[callsign-scully]

𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃

𝘫𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘹 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘬𝘪!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘯/𝘢

𝙖/𝙣: 𝘪’𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘭, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪’𝘮 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘭𝘧 𝘧𝘪𝘤. 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺—𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯!

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

𝖡𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗇 𝖧𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽. 𝖳𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖲𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖣𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗄 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗋𝗎𝖽𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗀𝗀𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒! 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍. 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆, 𝗒𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉.

“𝖭𝗈, 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇? ��𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎,” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗌, 𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗍. “𝖸/𝗇?”

“𝖣𝗂𝖽 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎?” 𝖨𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗑𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍.

“𝖭𝗈, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍, 𝖸/𝗇,” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖠 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾. “𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇?”

“𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. “𝖬𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗌–𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿.”

“𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝟣𝟫𝟪𝟢 𝖠𝖬𝖢 𝖤𝖺𝗀𝗅𝖾. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇. 𝖠 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗏-𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆, 𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄-𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗎𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾.

“𝖠𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗌, ��𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖻 𝗍𝗈𝗉. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖮𝖼𝗍𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖡𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗇 𝖧𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝖨’𝗆 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗐,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗈��𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒. “𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾.”

𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄. 𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾. “𝖨’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌. 𝖨𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖫𝗂𝖺𝗆 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗆𝗉.

“𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖾,” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗅𝗅.

𝖠 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋.

“𝖣𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿, 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇.” 𝖧𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. “𝖶𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾��� 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

“𝖲𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇?” 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗌, 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌. 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋, 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁.

𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖻𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉.

“𝖠𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿.

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽.” 𝖠 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆. “𝖧𝖾𝗒, 𝖨’𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒! 𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗍.”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗁.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗇 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. “𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋, 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾.”

“𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾. 𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀,” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗎𝗉𝖽𝗈, 𝗈𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗎𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌. “𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇. 𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾.”

“𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌, 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋. “𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗉. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖿𝖿’𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇𝖾-𝖻𝖾𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖻𝗌. 𝖨𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗂��𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗄𝖾𝗒𝗌–𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝖼𝖺𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾, 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖫𝖾𝗀𝗈 𝖱𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖡𝖺𝗍𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖩𝖾𝖾𝗉.

“𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖿𝖿 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾–𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗂𝗏𝗂𝖼 𝖽𝗎𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗑 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒, 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑.

“𝖨 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖿𝖿.” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍, 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝗀. “𝖡𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗑 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗉𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗌,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗋𝖺𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑, 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖤𝖺𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗌.

“𝖣𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗅 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗑. “𝖣𝖺𝗆𝗇𝗂𝗍.”

“𝖧𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗄𝗂?”

“𝖲𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗉, 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗁.” 𝖠𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉, 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋. 𝖮𝗇 𝖼𝗎𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗎𝗆𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌. “𝖫𝖾𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

“𝖭𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗀, 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉.

“𝖠 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗐𝗈𝗅𝖿–”

“𝖶𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗐𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗋𝗎𝗇 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋,” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄.

𝖠𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗉, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗀. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗇-𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾–𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌.

“𝖲𝗈…” 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌, 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝗎𝗓𝗓 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁. “𝖶𝗁𝗒’𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾?”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗉. “𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇?”

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒, 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽. “𝖨 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇…𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌. 𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍. 𝖧𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌. 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎–𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝖽’𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗒–𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗌. 𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖮𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿.

𝖤𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

“𝖨 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗆𝖾, 𝗂𝗍’𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌.

𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. “𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝘮𝘦 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀.

“𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗉, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾. “𝖮𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍.”

“𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨 𝖺𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖻, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾.

𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾. 𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗍–𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖻, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. “𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝖨 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆.”

𝖧𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 ��𝗋𝗂𝗇. “𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍?”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌, 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗌. “𝖶𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁. 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌. ��𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗐𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇.”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗉, 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒. 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. “𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌?”

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌. “𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾.”

𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽. “𝖦𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗀.”

“𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍?” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋.

“𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽. “𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇, 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗎𝗅𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝖼𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝗐𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍.

𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗂𝗑𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋–𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. 𝖲𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗇.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁��𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗇.

“𝖲𝗈…” 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. “𝖶𝖾’𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍?”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. “𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆.”

𝖩𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌, 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝖽𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆–𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗇𝖾𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒.

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

[callsign-scully]

If you see this you’re legally obligated to reblog and tag with the book you’re currently reading

[callsign-scully]

When reading fanfic keep in mind that for professional literature: 

Short story: under 7,500

Novelette: between 7,500 and 17,500

Novella: between 17,500 and 40,000

Novel: over 40,000

Fics over 40k are literally a novel written and shared for free.  If you have written a 40k+ fic, you have literally written a novel.

[callsign-scully]

my dream as a fanfic writer is to write a story which people want to talk to me about and send asks about afterwards and discuss things the characters did and the symbolism and meanings behind certain lines and I'll be all "hehe thanks" but irl I'll be in literal tears because I wrote something that means something to someone

[callsign-scully]

there simply aren’t enough hours in a day to go to work, read romance books, read and write fan fic, and also sustain my needs

[callsign-scully]

𝐏𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐒

𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘬𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦 𝘹 𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘰𝘯!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘬𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵, 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺

𝙖/𝙣: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘤 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳! 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘧𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵. 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯.

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾’𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾’𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋, 𝖨’𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾! 𝖬𝗒 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗇𝗈𝗐,” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝗒𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗎𝗉, 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽-𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝖠 𝗀𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌.” 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍?”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗄, 𝖡𝖾𝗇.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗄—𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍-𝗈𝗉 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.”

“𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖨’𝗆 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽!” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗀𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝖼𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒,” 𝖮𝗁, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒? 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀?”

“𝖮𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗌,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇, 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 ���𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗈����𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖳𝗈𝗄𝗒𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾! 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖦𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖺 𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌,” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗌, 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋-𝗈𝖿-𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍.

“𝖭𝗈, 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗌𝗈. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝖸/𝗇,” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

𝖰𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽.” 𝖭𝗈𝗉𝖾. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾.”

“𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍!” 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗎𝗉.” 𝖬𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖾. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖨 𝖽𝗈?”

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖠 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗌.” 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇, 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝗒𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖿 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗉 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖨𝗍 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍.

“𝖣𝗈𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀.” 𝖣𝗈𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺’𝖺𝗆.”

“𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍-𝖼𝗅𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗉 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋’𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆.

“𝖬𝖺’𝖺𝗆, 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅. 𝖲𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝗆𝖺’𝖺𝗆,” 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗉𝖻𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗒 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗍. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇, 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐. 𝖲𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍��𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝖽-𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾’𝗌. 𝖠𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽.

“𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗉. 𝖠 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌.

𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗃𝗈𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗎𝗉. 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗒 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾. 𝖧𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗎𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖯𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍.

“𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍-𝗈𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅, 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾.” 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽.

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖦𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌—𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

“𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋, 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝗀? 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗍.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗂𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇.

“𝖸𝖾𝗌, 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝗆𝖺’𝖺𝗆.” 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌.

𝖧𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗎𝗉, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒.

“𝖧𝗂, 𝖨’𝗆 𝖣𝗋. 𝖫/𝗇. 𝖢𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖮’𝖱𝖾𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗄,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝗒, 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖤𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁. 𝖨𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗋—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗈.

“𝖸𝖾𝗌, 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒.” 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝗌, 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌.

��𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽.“ 𝖬𝖺𝗒 𝖨 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋?” 𝖨𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿.” 𝖧𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗉𝖾𝖺,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗈, 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇.

𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎.” 𝖧𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈, 𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺’𝖺𝗆.”

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋. 𝖨𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝗈𝗍𝗈𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗉𝖾—“

“𝖦𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗍, 𝗆𝖺’𝖺𝗆.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗉, 𝖽𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾.” 𝖧𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈.”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝖱𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗋,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗁 𝗇𝗎𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁.” 𝖫𝖾𝗍’𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗅��� 𝗐𝖾?”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗈, 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖫𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄,” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄-𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒.

“𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗎𝖾,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒, 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝖽.” 𝖨’𝗏𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍.”

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗌.” 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝖨’𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾.”

“𝖶𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇’𝗍, 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾,” 𝖯𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖪𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖺 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗇. 𝖠 𝗇𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗇.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌, 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝖺��𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄. 𝖠 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝟦𝟢𝟩𝟩𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗀 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼.

“𝖲𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗍? 𝖠𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗒𝖺𝗋𝖽,” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽?

“𝖭𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇. 𝖶𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗍𝗌, 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗐𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺-𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀.” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄. 𝖦𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

“𝖮𝗁, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋!” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾.

“𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝖨 𝖺𝗆,” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍.” 𝖧𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋? 𝖲𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋. 𝖠𝗇𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋.”

“𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒,” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗇.” 𝖶𝗁𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄?”

𝖯𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽—𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖲𝗁𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁. 𝖠𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗅𝖼𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾’𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼.

“𝖠𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀,” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗌.” 𝖲𝗁𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗄𝗂𝖽𝗌. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 ��𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌, 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅.” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝖭𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝖦𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗌.

“𝖠𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗉𝖺𝗅.” 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗉𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋.” 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖨𝗍’𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍.”

𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖺 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗐 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽.

𝖨𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐-𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍’𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖥𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖬𝗎𝗅𝖼𝖺𝗁𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗄𝗂𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗐𝖺𝗆𝗉.

𝖲𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝖺𝖽𝗏𝗂𝖼𝖾—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝖧𝖾’𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁, 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖻𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖻, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿.

“𝖯𝖾𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌,” 𝖯𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗎𝗆, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖧𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗇𝗈 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗇𝗈𝗐.” 𝖧𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍—𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐?”

“𝖡𝖾𝗇, 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾-𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽.

𝖨𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗓𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗅 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖳𝗈𝗄𝗒𝗈. 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗅��𝗈𝗄 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗉𝖽𝗈.

“𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒.” 𝖧𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽.” 𝖧𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋?”

“𝖠 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌 𝗉��𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗒𝖾𝗍, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁. 𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌.” 𝖨 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝖾’𝖽 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗀𝗈 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖭𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖺. 𝖬𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗆’𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

“𝖶𝖾’𝖽,” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗎𝗉.

“𝖣𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝖡𝖾𝗇,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋?

“𝖭𝗈. 𝖭𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝖦𝗈𝖽, 𝖨 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗓𝗓𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗌.

𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌.

𝖠𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆.” 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋, 𝖡𝖾𝗇?”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌, 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌,” 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾.” 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋.

𝖬𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌—𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋—𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝖯𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐.” 𝖨 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝖡𝖾𝗇.”

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗀, 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆.” 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖨 𝗌𝖺𝗒? 𝖳𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾.”

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

[callsign-scully]

currently writing some hawkeye pierce x readers 🤭 please send in requests for more

[callsign-scully]

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐇

♥︎ - 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 | ☁︎ - 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 | ✿ - 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 | ★ - 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐟𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙨 : 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 || 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

✦ 𝘽𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙣 ‘𝙃𝙖𝙬𝙠𝙚𝙮𝙚’ 𝙋𝙞𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙚

001. — 𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘴 — ♥︎ [ 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘬𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳. ]

✦ 𝘽𝙅 𝙃𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙪𝙩𝙩

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

✦ 𝙅𝙤𝙝𝙣 ‘𝙏𝙧𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙧’ 𝙈𝙘𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙮𝙧𝙚

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯…

[callsign-scully]

Taglist Update!

hello taglist! just here to remind you to update your @s on my taglist form if they’ve changed. comment whenever you do with your old @, and i’ll delete your original form.

(some of your @s are leading to new accounts so i tagged both. let me know if you’re one of the crossed out ones or if you aren’t there at all.)

@nannoselliot @multifandom-loser @shum4chers @williamsgirlie @ecletric @itsxirenex @iloveyou3000morgan @schumacheer

p.s. i have a dc comics fic coming out tomorrow! <3