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mudisgranapat · 1 month ago

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ghost x f! reader. 4.5k words cw: none. 18+ mdni [masterlist]

your car breaks down in a snowstorm. a crude stranger takes you in from the cold.

If she was perturbed by his demand that she put on her beanie before she hopped out of his truck, whatever look she gave him when he suggested that he carry her to the door was ten-fold.

Not an offer he made to be a gentleman, was never in his nature to be one. Wasn’t about to lay his coat down over a puddle for her to step over. It was the pragmatic thing to do, he thought, because the girl was already teetering on the edge of early-phase hypothermia and there were no socks on under those slippers. Last thing he wanted was to have to strip off her wet clothes and stick her in front of the fire wrapped in blankets, because he was sure she’d kick up one hell of a fuss if he tried.

Her circumspect squint twisted into a gawk of disapproval once she had processed the offer, standing in front the garage’s open side door with her arms crossed like a crabby little girl.

“What? That’s — no, I’m fine, thank you.”

She had to yell it over the volume of the gale, whipping through the towering pines that surrounded his cabin and hammering against the open door, snow blowing in from the thick coating on the ground outside.

“Snow’s a foot deep,” he growled, and when she shook her head he scoffed irately. “Fuck’s sake. Fine. Move it then, snow’s getting’ in.”

She only chuffed, marching out into powder once he stepped aside to give her room — impeded immediately, because the ever-thickening layer of fresh snow reached her knees. Watching her try to wade through it might have made him laugh if his tempers weren’t so high.

It was genuinely a miracle he even managed to get the truck up the long driveway and into the garage, considering how deep the snow was already — and it was still growing deeper, the snowfall was so dense he could practically see it accumulating in inch-thick layers with every passing minute.

“C’mon,” he barked, planting a firm hand on her shoulder to nudge her forward the porch, guiding so that she didn’t hit the rocks and bushes hidden under the snow.

Smirked when she failed to conceal her chill from the ice filling up her Uggs, a bright squeak as the biting wind nipped at her cheeks. Not a long walk from the garage to the cabin, only ten-odd metres, but he had no interest in tending to frostbite if she was completely snowblown by the time she toppled through the front door; so he was not gentle.

“What about my stuff?” She moaned, as he jostled her up the porch steps until she was under shelter, and began punching his code into the lockbox by the door.

“Jesus, girl,” he grumbled, exasperated, almost snapping the lid off the box in his ferocity to open it, sheer frustration turning his hands into bear claws. “I’ll get your shit in a second. Getting you inside first.”

She was bouncing on her toes as he unlocked the door, already shivering and whimpering in the cold; her hair was covered in a sprinkling of snow, white flecks caught on her lashes and melting on her cheeks. Once he managed to unlock and open the door, he hooked an arm around the small of her back and unceremoniously hurled her inside.

Fucking dog started barking immediately, those ear-splitting husky yelps he let out whenever Simon came through the door; only exacerbated by the surprise arrival of a stranger. She squealed in fright, stumbling backwards until she fell against his torso — and that startled her even more, she chirped and bounced off him like a ball off a racket.

Couldn’t help but chuckle at her, as he reached around her and tousled the dog between the ears.

“Careful,” he sneered. “He’s aggressive.”

A joke. He was a well-trained pup but a miserable failure of a guard dog. He didn’t jump or mouth, just rested his chin expectantly on her belly and wagged his tail like a whip, panting like he had just run to the lake and back. Had clearly chosen a new favourite already.

“This’s Johnny.” He cleared his throat, because the name made his mouth dry to utter aloud; and only then did he realise he hadn’t spoken it in months. Only ever referred to the dog as boy. Shorter, simpler that way. Didn’t leave burns on its way out.

“Oh,” she bleated, once she had caught her breath, releasing it with a sheepish chuckle. Gave the blue-eyed husky a timid pat on the forehead. “Hi Johnny.”

He stepped around her, then, shutting the door behind him and heading towards the woodburner in the corner of the small sitting room. Added a few logs to the embers to get the fire going again, blowing on it until the pile glowed amber and a puff of ashes sprinkled over the stone tiles around the hearth.

“C’mere,” he ordered, as he shut the firebox door and twisted the wrought iron knob to seal it.

“Hm?” She hummed, distracted by the dog who lavished her in attention, and her expression was not nearly as dour than it had been not a minute earlier. Boy seemed to have that effect on everyone.

“Here,” he repeated, no give in his tone.

She meandered over without dispute, dog nailed to her hip and looking up at her expectantly. Kiss ass.

“Dark in here,” she remarked.

“Mh. I’ll start up the generator in a minute,” he said, dusting the slivers of wood off his palms and heading back towards the front door. “Warm yourself up.”

“Where are you going?” Her arms crossed, pup as attentive to his departure as she was.

Didn’t like that the concern in her question made his throat sting like he had swallowed something sharp.

“Unloading the truck,” he said.

First thing he did was start up the generator.

Needed a top up on diesel, but it started without issue thanks to the antigel, and through the sheets of snow he saw the lights flicker on through the bathroom window once he stepped out of the shed.

The blizzard was somehow worsening, though, and in the few steps from the toolshed to the garage he felt shards of ice form in the mucosa of his nostrils, skin of his cheeks threatening to blister in the cold — so he decided to unpack the truck proper in the morning. Anything perishable would be better preserved in the frigid air than his freezer, anyway. He took in the fuel cans, though, so the petrol wasn’t frozen by morning, and begrudgingly grabbed the girl’s enormous suitcase from the backseat. Weighed a damn tonne.

She stood uneasily in the corner of the sitting room as he lumbered back into the cabin, pushing shut the door with significant effort against the incursive gale and sealing it with a switch of the lock. He kicked the snow off his boots as the dog wandered up to him and gave him a welcoming sniff.

She watched him like he had committed some wrongdoing, rigid and white-knuckled, perched close enough to the fire to feel some of its warmth but not curled up like he’d hoped she’d be.

“What,” he grunted, shucking off his thick black jacket and hanging it from the hook by the door, the snow that had coated it dusting over the hardwood. There was a churlishness in his tone he didn’t intend to put there.

She only returned with a mutter, crossing her arms. “Nothing.”

“What’s the matter,” he repeated, impatient, as he walked in her direction. “Y’want a bite?”

She didn’t seem appreciative of the offer. “No thank you.”

“What do you want, then?”

He didn’t mean to snap like he did. Abrasive was an apt description of him upon reflection, because every word that came out of his mouth was acrid with irritation. He was irritated, though. He just lacked the ability or care to conceal it.

She only huffed like a child, turning to look into the woodburner instead of at him, as he came to a stop in front of her. She seemed to shrink when that close to him.

“Use your words, girl. Can’t be arsed with sulking.”

She gritted her teeth as she chewed on a response, still averting his gaze, pinching at the fabric of her hoodie as though some habit borne of discomfort. He was sure he was making her uncomfortable just by being in the same room as her, but that was something she’d just have to suck up or get used to.

“I’m just tired,” she mumbled.

He sucked his teeth. “Right. Well, couch is there if you want to sleep.”

Not the most appealing thing to sleep on, he’d admit. A two-person loveseat with wooden armrests and thin, overused cushions that had lost their spring after forty-odd years of exiled military asses sitting on them. Place was built in the eighties, he guessed, and half the furnishings were mummified remnants of the era.

Stiff shit for her, though. He could see her wrestling with it, eyes peeling away from the sapless couch to flit around the room, as if she might find a more comfortable alternative.

“There a problem?” He asked, amused at her hesitant expression when she met his eye. He’d have loved to tell her that her only other options were his bed or the dog bed. He was sure she’d have chosen the dog’s.

“No,” she shook her head.

Her belligerence did little to obfuscate how afraid she was. She was riddled with it, pre-programmed by a swollen amygdala to keep her still and chary as a trapped animal. It left him exasperated more than anything — because there was seemingly nothing he could say, nothing he knew to do to assuage her overwhelming distrust. Unlikely she would sleep a wink that night while in the cabin with him, and the last thing he wanted was for her to be sleep-deprived and crabby when the news of her inevitably extended stay was broken.

He wanted to tell her he wasn’t a bad man. He didn’t think he could say it with a straight face. Couldn’t convince himself, let alone the girl he dragged in out of the cold.

He let out a harried sigh and rubbed his brow with his thumb. “Scared I’ll do something, are you?”

Her glare pinned to him, and he could all but see the battle waging behind her forehead — deny politely or risk honesty. Asking her so bluntly was probably not the most couth way to go about it, and he she tightened up at the notion.

“I just—” She hesitated, squeezing her shoulders with the hands wrapped around herself. “I don’t really know you.”

He nodded, tilting his head in concession. Not quite a clear answer, but she confirmed it implicitly.

So he turned and went to the tall cabinet by the door, rummaged through the drawers within for a moment, before returning with his handgun. Was never good at storing his firearms properly. It was fortunate she didn’t register what he was holding until he held it out for her to take, grasping it by the barrel, grip in her direction.

She gawked at it, horrified, and for a heartbeat he dreaded that he had made everything worse by presenting her with the very tool she feared he’d murder her with.

But she reached for it tentatively, fortunately understanding he intended to give it to her and not point it at her. Whispered what the fuck to herself as though forgetting she had spoken aloud. He found himself amused by how gingerly she took it from him, holding it like it was liable to jump from her grip or explode if she touched it wrong, eyes not parting from it for a second. Tiny hands made the thing look twice as big.

“Safety’s on,” he mumbled, turning the gun over in her palm to show her the switch, before flipping it. “Now it’s off.”

“This is… why would you—”

“S’yours,” he said dryly. “If I do something bad you can shoot me with it.”

“I — you — but I—” Short-circuiting, evidently, eyes darting from the pistol that suddenly looked more comfortable in her hand and back to him, her supposed captor.

“Won’t need to, though,” he said dismissively, giving the dog a pat on the side before he turned and wandered towards the narrow hallway. Dog was staying with her tonight, apparently, because he remained by her side instead of following him to his bedroom like he usually did. “Blankets are in the basket under the couch.”

“Where are you going?” She asked again, and he bit down on nothing.

“Bed.”

He anticipated silence, or some more whingeing, or perhaps even a bullet to the back of the head on his way out.

Instead, an apprehensive murmur. “Good night.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He responded with only a grunt.

His dreams were ugly.

Axes and lumbered logs, too wet and rotten to burn. Blood where it shouldn’t be, splashed over the stump, smeared on the throat of the axe grip, in the shape of his handprint. A futile effort to wash the red off his hands, and while the water ran rusty down the sink, the stains remained.

Only when they were rubbed raw, finally clean, did he find a splinter in his palm — tried to squeeze at it, pick it out with his fingernails, scratch off the flesh it was embedded in — he woke up with his fingernails burrowing into his hand, with sweat clammy on his neck and and his blankets kicked off.

The heater in his room had been humming all night, and the cabin was well insulated, so he had almost forgotten the extent of the snowstorm until he slipped off his bed and tugged open his plaid curtains.

White.

All he could see. For a moment he thought the snow might have been deep enough that it swallowed his entire house — instead it was more whiteout, thick cloud that obfuscated much of the horizon he was used to. The snowfall was lighter, though, and the wind had somewhat settled. The lodgepole pines that were once spindly and deep green were thick with a coating of fondant, branches drooping under the weight of the cover.

Hard luck for the wee girl on his couch.

He remembered she was there as he wandered out of his bedroom in his sweatpants, rubbing his eye with his palm and grunting huskily to clear his sleep-coated throat.

He could smell her. Only in the warmth did the faintest hint of her perfume fill the air, or perhaps her deodorant, even just the scent of her skin — utterly alien in the permanently dust- and tobacco-tainted air of his cabin.

She was, bafflingly, still asleep when he made it to the kitchen. He spotted her curled up on the scratchy woven rug on the floor, a stolen sofa cushion under her head and two woollen blankets pulled up to her cheeks. The fire had gone out overnight, and she and the dog were as close as possible to the hearth without sleeping on the stone surround. Dog must love her already, squished up behind her with his chin resting in the hollow of her waist. That, or, she was a good source of warmth.

The couch must have been that uncomfortable. Couldn’t bear it for even a single night, princess and her damn pea. He wondered if he’d be able to find her an alternative for the next few nights she’d be stuck with him, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

He heard a faint moan as he lumbered towards the kettle, filling it up with water and setting it on the gas burner. Must have woken her up. He hadn’t made any particular effort to be quiet, though such a thing was near impossible for him. So damn heavy that every step shook the floor.

She was still fully dressed as she stumbled over to the kitchen archway, same clothes as yesterday, though she had her pompom-adorned beanie on the top of her head. Must have been cold overnight, once the fire went out.

“Morning,” she said, voice all croaky from a rough sleep, rubbing her eyes with her fists.

“Couch no good?” He asked derisively, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet above the counter.

“It was a little um — yeah,” she dithered. Yet unwilling to be frank with him. “It’s fine, though, I slept alright.”

“On the floor?” He questioned, smirking, his back to her.

“It was fine,” she repeated.

He shrugged. Unwise suggesting the only alternative just yet. He grabbed the tin of teabags from the cupboard.

“Tea?” The offer was bitten out short and impatient, a grunt more than a word.

“I’d like to hit the road pretty soon, if that’s okay with you.”

He let out a hoarse sigh. Too fucking early for a conversation he didn’t want to have at all. He had hoped she’d have come to terms with it on her own, the obvious fact that she was there to stay. Spared him the argument.

Her eyes flicked up from his chest as he turned to face her, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. He might have grinned if he wasn’t filled to the ears with beleaguered dread.

Birds used to love it when he forsook a shirt in his days of being an active field operative. Back when he was nice and chiselled, all carved abdominals and lean around the middle. Two years of hibernation had thickened him up, though. He had grown a hearty padding of fat that wrapped his meat and kept him warm, muscles bulked up by the manual labour of living off-grid. The slight paunch of a man too familiar with alcohol and a diet of mostly red meat and baked beans.

Not a pretty sight, in his estimation — but he wouldn’t begrudge her skittish glances. Liked that she looked a little sheepish when she met his eye.

He chewed on what to tell her. How to say it. “Have you looked out the window?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty snowy, so—”

“It is,” he grumbled.

“—So we should probably head out before it gets worse.”

Just about rolled his eyes. Scratched his stubbled chin instead. “Use your head, love.”

“What do you mean,” she questioned accusingly, “I am. I want to make sure I can get to a — a town, or something, before I get stranded.”

Seemed she wouldn’t reach the conclusion on her own. “You already are.”

Her brows scrunched up at that. “No — it’s, but you said—”

“I know what I said,” he disputed. “I said if the road’s open I’d take you.”

“You don’t know that it’s closed,” she spat, “you haven’t even gone out to check.”

“Mh. Go on, check then.”

“But—”

“Find the road for me.”

She scowled, scoffed, turned up her nose as she stomped over to her nest on the floor and shoved her feet into her Ugg boots. He found himself chuckling as she unlocked and tore open the front door, only to be met by a wall of snow on the porch that met her knees.

For a misguided moment he was satisfied. Patent evidence that there was no chance of driving anywhere, smack in front of her, surely that would suffice — but then she stepped into it.

“Fuck’s sake, girl,” he barked, marching to the door. “I wasn’t serious.”

She was unfazed. Waddling through the powder like she might walk all the way back to fucking Hazelton.

He was woefully unprepared to follow her. Only item of clothing he had on were his grey sweatpants — no shirt, no socks, no shoes. Hardly enough time to put his snow boots on before she got too far and vanished into the whiteout, so he left them unlaced as he ordered the dog to stay and hurried out into the snow.

Lucky that the residual body heat from his fitful sleep meant he could handle the gelid morning without a jacket. Hoped it would last as long as it took to catch her.

It took him a moment to spot her through the cottony haze of cloud — a moment too long for his liking, because he felt his chest tighten up when he couldn’t find her, until he saw her silhouette meandering towards the garage.

Fortunate that he was well-practiced in trudging through snow, and she manifestly was not; must have got her foot caught on something, because he watched her topple forward and land arms-first into the powder. Heard her squeal get muffled by the snow as she sank in it.

Growled indignantly as he shambled towards her, where she scrambled and bleated like a tipped goat, failing to push herself to stand. He hooked her by the belly once he reached her and reeled her out of the chalk-white snow, hoisting her up like a limp animal, cold and wet.

She didn’t kick, didn’t squeal, didn’t even wriggle in his grip; instead she disputed with only a moan, a pitiful appeal; “put me down.”

Her defeat was tangible in her laxity, though, flopping her arms over his shoulder as he hauled her back to the cabin. Snow that had stuck to her hoodie melted into his skin and his frustration only distended, gelid water dribbling down his spine and soaking into the waistband of his sweatpants, and he might have called her a stupid girl if the circumstances didn’t make him feel like a reprobate.

“Any luck?” He grumbled, needlessly facetious, as he carted her up the snow-coated steps and finally had her back inside. Shut the door with his boot before he dropped her to her feet.

She stood there with her arms crossed, snivelling quietly to herself, refusing to look at him or take a single step in any direction. Perhaps he would have felt guilty, if she hadn’t forced him to venture out into the frigid morning to prevent her from getting herself killed. Again.

He pinched the thick fleece of her hoodie between his fingers. Soaked with melt.

“You gonna do that again?” He asked grimly, watching the flakes of snow on the top of her beanie deliquesce into the holes in the yarn.

She was obdurately silent, wiped away a smelting snowflake with the sodden cuff of her sweater as she glowered at the wall to her left.

“I don’t wanna be stuck here,” she mumbled, somehow spiteful. “I don’t want to be stuck here with you.”

He couldn’t suppress a mordant chuckle at that. A puff of droll air out his nostrils.

“Stiff shit,” he said. “I don’t exactly want you here, either.”

The grimace she gave him could have turned him to stone, but it only made him grin in placid amusement. A cruel twist of fate, wasn’t it?

“Then why won’t you take me back?” She asked bitterly, and his amusement was snuffed out as quickly as a blown candle.

“Y’think I’ve kidnapped you?” He questioned, vexation poisoning his tone. “S’that really what you think?

Seemed she wasn’t willing to say as much, that she wouldn’t stoop low enough to make an outright accusation, but she wore her conviction plain as day in the crease in her brow.

“You won’t let me leave,” she murmured, her voice suddenly infinitesimally small.

He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger until they ached and he saw red blooming, because she was, regrettably, probably right. He had no intention of letting her leave. Not one. He’d sooner tie her up by the ankle to the radiator than let her wander out into the snow on her own.

He’d like to think it was merely fervid protectiveness. An inborn and insurmountable need to safeguard the vulnerable that was only fostered by a decade in the military. The pathological need to obviate any further responsibility for someone else’s death.

That was a charitable excuse, though.

He could feel something uglier in his gut. Something dark and desperate, borne of a malignant and omnipresent familiarity with loss. A void that both forcibly assured its vacuity and yet still hungered for something living and beating to surfeit it.

Worse, still.

She was such a pretty thing.

He loathed that he liked the smell of her, the sight of her, the sound of her voice. Even in spite of how she irked him; a prickly rosebud in the thorn-ridden bramble of his solitude, one that he quite selfishly enjoyed the presence of.

“No,” he admitted, through teeth. “I won’t.”

Wet little eyes fixed to his. Scleras all pink from welling tears and a restless sleep. Pupils blown wide and black, looking for something. He could feel it, picks mining away at the stone walls surrounding his motivations, like there might be something obvious within them. He wasn’t even sure what she’d find.

“Snowstorm will last a couple days,” he said, eventually, amidst a sigh. “Then it’ll clear up. Snow’ll melt. When it does, I’ll take you wherever y’need to go.”

Then, miraculously, she nodded. Slowly, warily, but he was grateful for even an iota of acquiescence, so that he didn’t have to confront the possibility of forcibly restraining her.

“How long will that take?” She asked, taking a preparatory breath.

“Week, maybe.”

Good timing from the dog, as he meandered over from his bed and sniffed at her thigh, and she seemed to loosen a little. Gave him a scratch behind the ears.

“Do you — have you got supplies for that long?”

“‘Nuff to last a month,” he said. “Not my first time being snowed in.”

She nodded again, and he felt a weight lift from somewhere he couldn’t pin. “Okay,” she breathed. “Fine. As long as you promise you’ll take me to town the moment you can.”

“Cross my heart,” he grunted. Plain in her expression she understood how brittle a promise was from a stranger, but he was pretty sure he meant it.

The silence that followed was prickly. Clear she had no clue what to do with herself, as if awaiting permission or instruction, because she was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be.

“You should put on something dry,” he said, as he turned to head back into the kitchen. Kettle needed to boil again. “Want a tea or not?”

She said nothing as she went back to her spot on the floor, and he heard her unzip her suitcase and burrow around in the doubtless mountain of clothes within.

“Um — yeah, thanks,” she said, and after a moment she appeared in the kitchen archway with her arms wrapped around a bundle. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“First on the left.” One of two doors. Decided against warning her that it didn’t have a lock.

She came back a moment later. “Is it — um, is it okay if I use the shower?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you have a spare towel?”

“Cupboard in the hallway.”

“Can I—”

“Use whichever one you want, I don’t give a shit,” he grumbled. “Just don’t use all the hot water.”

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mudisgranapat · 2 months ago

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[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 4.5k words cw: ehh. none. 18+ mdni

your car breaks down in a snowstorm. a crude stranger takes you in from the cold.

Solitude was as familiar an organ as his liver.

It had been with him since birth. A congenital defect, bulbous and ugly, wedged somewhere between his lung and his stomach.

Inoperable. Harder to kill than a liver, too. Liquor alleviated the ache in the short term, a brief reprieve from feeling it nudging against his ribs — but he wasn’t ignorant to the fact that booze was a nostrum. Fed it like tributaries to a lake, diameter stretching every year, and it wouldn’t be long until he drowned in it.

He didn’t concern himself with the long-term, though. Not much point in it. He’d tell himself that he’d cross that bridge when he got to it; but, in truth, he never imagined himself reaching the bridge in the first place.

He wasn’t in a hurry to die, by any means. There was some gratification to be found in surviving one day at a time. Gave him the feeling he was proving someone wrong. His father, maybe. The Captain. Himself. Didn’t matter — that spite was what fueled him, and as long as there was still gas in the tank, he’d keep driving.

The safehouse he had been holed up in for the better part of two years was good for him in a bad way.

The perfect place to fester, let his apathy rankle into something cold and vindictive, to the point that crossing peoples’ paths irked him and their smiles struck him as insults. He hadn’t considered himself antisocial as a young man, because wherever he went there were people around, to either his pleasure or annoyance. Kids at school, barrack mates, brothers-in-arms. Pretty birds, too, back when he used to be pretty himself.

Proof was in the pudding, now that he was tucked away in the backwoods at the base of Mt Thomlinson, with a counterfeit Canadian passport and specific orders to stay under the radar. Human interaction was something he needed to seek out, to actively pursue — and he didn’t.

The thought made his jaw tight, in fact. Gone long enough without it that the very notion of it nettled him. He’d answer with two words maximum when the Captain checked in. He’d offer the worker at the nearest supermarket a single greeting when he checked out and a single thanks when he left. Most words he exchanged were with his dog.

It wasn’t social anxiety that turned him reclusive. He wasn’t shy, wasn’t reserved out of some bashful worry that he’d say the wrong thing — no, what kept him alone was anger.

Anger with nowhere to go but out. A creature in itself, starved, hankering for another being to consume. To infect. His simmering rage was confined within the walls of his cabin when he was alone, safely restrained, hidden from sight. The simple presence of another heartbeat threatened to tip the balance, to pop the balloon he had been steadily inflating with every breath he exhaled since his sergeant was shot in the head.

Being alone was fine by him. Preferable, even. Beholden to no one, and no one to him.

His monthly supply run had come a week early, in anticipation of the snowstorm they had been blathering about on the radio for the past few days. The three-hour drive to Smithers was rarely a pleasant one, winding roads that were carved into the tall mountain faces, poorly maintained chipseal riddled with waterlogged potholes – but this time the snowfall was especially heavy, and the dicey trip took him an hour longer than usual.

He wasn’t complaining. Empty time to sit in silence and smoke a whole pack.

The bird at the Safeway checkout wasn’t particularly bubbly, something Simon always found a relief. Made him feel like less of a prick for not reciprocating even a single smile. Probably at the end of her shift, pissed off that he showed up fifteen minutes before closing with five-hundred dollars worth of groceries. She gave him a half-roll of her eyes as he loaded his goods onto the belt; not quite subtle enough to avoid notice, but he had as little interest interacting with her as she did him, so he said nothing. She sent him off with his receipt and a muted stay warm and he responded with only a grunt.

He left the township with enough supplies to fill the bed of his truck, secured tightly under a tarp — cans, jars, bags of milk, three cows worth of beef that would find home in his chest freezer. Toilet rolls, pancake mix, couple blocks of chocolate. Few jerry cans. Diesel and gasoline. Liquor, but that went without saying — enough to kill an elephant, but he was only replenishing his dwindling reserves. Hopefully just enough to last him the rest of the month.

The weather had turned for the worse on his way home. Someone with a stronger sense of self-preservation would have pulled over and waited for the blizzard to pass, but he had his husky waiting for him by the hearth, and a bottle of Redbreast calling his name. Besides, his truck was built for it — four-wheel drive, locking differentials, deep tread tyres with alpine snow chains.

Even still, the emergency alert lighting up his phone was enough to put him slightly on edge. Snow squall warning in effect until 03:00 PDT. Slow down.

Bit fucking late for it to be of any use to him. He could see it out the damn window. See was a stretch, even — the snow beating on his windscreen was so dense it was near blinding, glowing bright white in his headlights, and despite knowing the road like the back of his hand he begrudgingly slowed to twenty to avoid careening off the side of the mountain.

Small miracle that he did.

Right as he went around a bend in the road, the smallest flash of an orange light cut through the sheets of white — smack in the centre of the road ahead. He slammed his foot into the break, cursing as the truck screeched along the salt-covered road, planing slightly on the fresh snow — kept the truck under control, though, and he managed to veer off into the shoulder, narrowly missing the trunk of a lodgepole.

He sat in the silence for a beat as he came to a stop. Just long enough to take a breath. Bit down on the adrenaline-riled rage that threatened to erupt through his jaws as he kicked open the driver side door and jumped out into the snowfall, leaving the engine running.

He heard the harried voice before he saw its origin through the whiteout; “Are you okay? I’m so sorry!”

Finally spotted the young bird yelling out to him through the blizzard — standing by a multi-decade-old Toyota Starlet with the hood popped and the hazards on, spun out in the middle of the road.

“The fuck are you doing?” He roared on his approach, arm up to shield his eyes from the blisteringly cold wind.

“I’m really sorry,” she pleaded, wetness in her throat, “I was — I was trying to push it out of the way, but I—”

“No, girl, what are you doing out here in the middle of a fuckin’ snowstorm?” He barked, forgoing his initial reaction to deride her for attempting to push the damn thing; mousy wee bird that she was, amused that she would even attempt it.

“I drove over some ice, and I — I don’t know what happened. I slammed on the brakes and heard a crack and — and now the car won’t start—”

Only as she started rambling and his fury waned to an impatient frustration did he hear the panicked tears in her voice. Stupid fucking girl — driving a tin can like that in the middle of nowhere, amid forecasted blizzards, alone. The pith of his anger quickly shifted from exasperation at the near-miss to the fact that she would have gotten herself killed if fate hadn’t placed him on the road when it did.

Wearing a hoodie and leggings, for shit’s sake. As if those Ugg boots would have kept her feet warm in the double negatives.

“Should’ve waited in your damn car,” he grumbled, as he marched past her and squished himself into the open driver side of her Starlet — fucking clown car — and twisted the keys in the ignition. No use asking for her permission, and she put up no fuss. Probably did her the favour of quashing her need to ask for his help.

The car was screaming at him, dashboard practically a light show — but the cause and manner was unambiguous in the slick whirr of the engine. No catch. Wheezing like a dying man.

“Can you tell what’s wrong?” She asked eagerly, leaning down to peer into the open door, arms wrapped tight as constrictors around herself. Shaking like a puppy.

“Timing belt,” he grunted, as he pushed himself out of the car. Must have found him intimidating, because she shifted to her hind foot once he stood up straight. He was used to that.

“What?” She spluttered, worry creasing in her brow, “is that — is that bad?”

He snorted. “Yeah, it’s bad. Engine’s dead.”

Her face crumpled like a tissue when he said that. “Shit,” she sobbed, gritting teeth, “Can you — is there any way to fix it?”

“No,” he said bluntly.

Stupid girl, swallowed it again so that she didn’t have to hear it — clear in her expression she thought it as much as he did, as she rubbed her face with flat hands, elbows tight to her chest. Those little hands would be black with frostbite if he left her out in the cold much longer.

He made up his mind. Resolved to lumber to the back of her car and crack open the boot. She was quick to protest; “What are you—”

“Get in the truck,” he ordered.

She dithered by her open door, quivering and moaning as she battled for any reasonable dispute she could mount. Must have known as well as he did that whatever she could have mustered would have fallen flat, because there weren’t any.

There was a suitcase in the boot with a sock sticking out of the zipper, overstuffed to the brink of bursting. Found himself fleetingly curious where she was heading with her whole life packed in softshell luggage, driving through the Canadian wilderness in the middle of the night. Running from something, girl?

Not his business. He yanked it out and carted it towards his truck.

“Hey, you can’t just—”

“Don’t make me tell you twice,” he snapped, tearing open his back door and tossing the cumbersome suitcase into the backseat.

“But, my car — there m-must be something you can do,” she begged, as if he might be able to pluck a more agreeable alternative out of the aether and present it to her.

“Yeah, I can get you out of the cold so you don’t fuckin’ freeze to death,” he said, leaning into her open car door to grab her purse from the passenger seat. Tossed that in his truck alongside her suitcase.

“Will you take me t-to a — a nearby service station, or s-something?” She stammered; clear the cold was sinking deep, because he could hear the strain of her full-body shivers in her throat, voice grinding out through gritting teeth.

“Nearby?” He scoffed, “do you have any clue where you are?”

“I was on the w-way to Hazelton,” she said, an endearing attempt at certainty.

“Get in the damn truck. Last time I’m asking,” he grunted, fuse running short, as he went to put the car in neutral and began pushing it to the side of the road. Size of a go-kart, he probably could have picked it up and carried it if he felt so inclined.

She snivelled. “Can you t-take me to Hazelton?”

“D’you hit your fuckin’ head, girl?” He growled, slamming shut her door once the vehicle was off the road.

Wee thing was frozen solid. He could see it in her lips as he stomped towards her, grey and cracked, crystallizing in her eyes as she squinted in the wind. Shivering bordering on convulsion. No doubt her hypothermia was becoming severe enough to affect her judgement.

“‘Nuff pissin’ around,” he grumbled, taking her bicep in a fist and hauling her towards his truck.

“Wait — but I don’t — I don’t even know you,” she blubbered, but put up no tangible resistance. Let him drag her along like a pup on a lead. Lucky, because even if she had fought him he’d have thrown her in the truck kicking and screaming. Wouldn’t have another corpse on his conscience, whatever was left of it.

“Too bad,” he said. “Not leavin’ you out here to freeze to death.”

“I’m n-not ev-even c-cold.”

He almost chuckled at that. Daft girl. Brain all mushy from the chill of the snowstorm blowing in through her ears. Not a good sign.

In any other situation, he might have considered her reluctance understandable. Rational, even — pretty young thing alone on a backcountry road, carted off in a strange man’s truck, no cell service, nowhere to run — didn’t look good. The alternative, though, was leaving her to wander into the snow at the behest of hypothermia-induced psychosis and die where nobody would ever find her.

“Hey — you can’t—” Still whingeing as he lifted her with two hands under her arms and plonked her into the passenger seat. Mouthy little thing.

“Knees in,” he said, no interest in entertaining her grousing.

Did as she was told, at least, petulant huff notwithstanding. He threw shut the door once her legs were clear of it and went back to her car for a final once over — didn’t want to hear the bitching if anything was left behind, because he wasn’t coming back for it.

Found an insulated drink bottle, a phone charger, and a beanie with a silly little pompom stitched to the top. Nothing else beyond old receipts and empty cans of diet coke.

He chucked his spoils at her as he hopped up into the driver’s seat and they landed in her lap, but her shaky little hands did little to prevent them from dropping onto the floor between her feet.

He cranked up the heater once he shut his door, full blast, and held the back of his hand to the vent that he turned to pump in her direction. Took a minute to get to max heat, but eventually he felt the warmth bloom across his thick skin.

“C’mere,” he huffed, gesturing with a beckon of his fingers for her to give him her hands. When she failed to realise what he was asking for, he grabbed them, pivoting them by her wrists until they were palm-up.

Frigid to the touch. Stiff and waxy.

“Feel that?” He murmured, pinching the tip of her middle finger, and she sucked her teeth.

“Kind of,” she gritted, then let out a high-pitched chirp when he pinched a bit harder, squishing her nail bed. “Ow.”

He let out a puff of air. “Good,” he said, before forcibly maneuvering her hands so each palm sat flat against a heating vent. “Keep ‘em there.”

She said nothing in response as he put the car in drive and took off down the snow-blanketed road. He had always preferred driving stick, but the truck was prescribed to him by one of the many governments that had him in their employ — and he couldn’t begrudge the thing. State of the art. Something built for the arctic tundra, so rugged and fit-for-purpose that it seemed like an insult to drive it on sealed roads.

Not to mention — good fucking heating. The interior of the cab was a balmy twenty-five celsius within five minutes.

“Where are we going?” She finally piped up, squeezing her hands into fists and twisting them so the backs of her knuckles had a turn in the heat. “You didn’t — um… you didn’t tell me.”

Proper bundle of nerves, now that her wits had returned with a stable body temperature. Focus shifted from surviving the cold to surviving the stranger that threw her in his truck.

Couldn’t blame her. He could practically see the terror dawning on her between every syllable, the stark realisation that she had asked him no questions, had no bearings, and there was no escape.

He had no intention of harming her, but he lacked the ability to make that apparent. Couldn’t exactly say I won’t hurt you without inviting suspicion that the very thought had crossed his mind.

He was self-aware enough to acknowledge his presence alone was threatening, great ugly beast that he was. Scarred and knurled and frayed around the edges. Eyes that carried death with them. Teeth a bit crooked and canines far too sharp. Not least the size of him — served him well in the military, but in the pitch-black wilderness it rendered him something of a cryptid. A sasquatch in a gore-tex jacket. Towering. Beady-eyed. Communicating only in growls and grunts.

Could tell that she was thinking as much, watching in his periphery as she flicked her gaze to him for short bursts, flinching every time he moved. Timid wee thing. Felt just a touch of guilt that he so clearly frightened her, but then he was reminded that he had just saved her from certain death, and her trepidation suddenly bordered on insulting.

Only when she let out a shaky little breath, sinking into her seat like she might fold up into it, did he realise he hadn’t answered her question. Just let the worried words float in the air until they decayed into a denied plea.

“My place,” he said firmly, far too late for the answer to be any succor, because his silence was a threat in itself.

“Oh,” she eked, eyes darting around the car as if to soak in her surroundings. He hoped she wouldn’t be stupid enough to try and open the door, but he resisted the urge to hit the locks, because he knew the second she heard that sound her quiet nerves would erupt into base terror. “Is it, um, how far is it?”

“Not far,” he said. “Twenty-odd minutes.”

“Is it safe to — to drive in snow like this?” She asked worriedly, and he snorted at that.

“You tell me,” he chided.

She huffed. “I didn’t think it would get this bad,” she muttered. “I had to — mh. Doesn’t matter.”

His curiosity was piqued, but he didn’t press. He resolved to remain silent unless prompted, focusing on what little of the treacherous road he could see through the whiteout, cruising at fifteen now that he had more precious cargo aboard.

She regarded him with a caution that made the back of his neck feel hot. Evasive blinks in his direction. Eyes on his hands as they hung from the steering wheel.

No good could come from enjoying it. How he troubled her. How she looked at him with a faint curl in her brow, eyes wide and ears pinned like a cornered cat. Might have spoken to a latent thirst for control that not even being a lieutenant could slake. Could just as likely have been the fact he liked birds with a bit of scratch in them.

“What’s your name?” She asked tightly, hunting for dirt on him rather than asking out of interest. He smirked at the thought, that she was collecting all of the leads she could to feed to the cops once she escaped from his clutches, as if he had taken her against her will.

“Simon,” he said frankly. She was quiet after that, picking at her fingernails and staring out the window, so he returned; “Gonna tell me yours?”

She had to think about it for a bit. Like sharing her name with him might present some risk. When she told him, she only mumbled it, with enough reluctance that he wondered if she had lied.

“Pretty,” he murmured.

Knew he shouldn’t have been complimenting her given the circumstances, but maintaining etiquette was not his strong suit. There was no filter between his brain and his mouth and he had no interest in installing one.

Didn’t help that she was a lovely thing. Sweet enough to bite. Soft-cheeked and glossy-eyed. Might have acted too soon in taking her to his cabin with him.

She drew in a careful breath. “So — tonight, you—”

“Y’can crash at mine,” he said simply.

She looked affronted by the suggestion, head cocked back and all. “For the night?”

“Wouldn’t leave you to sleep in the fuckin’ snow, would I?”

“No, I — I didn’t think I’d be sleeping at your house,” she groused, “I just thought that we’d, I don’t know, wait out the blizzard and—”

“Y’expect me to stay up ‘til five in the morning so I can play taxi for you all the way to Hazelton?”

“Well, it’s just—” She faltered, “I don’t even know you.”

“Sure you do,” he said. “I’m Simon.”

“Simon who?”

He grinned at that. Little bit of moxie slipping out when it probably wasn’t wise to let it. Never know, girl, because he could have been all that you feared he was, and that little bit of fight could have been his excuse.

“Riley,” he said, entertaining her. Not often he threw that around. Didn’t even match the name on his fake passport, but he was sure she’d never lay eyes on the thing.

She blinked at him for a moment. Hunting for the next clue. “You got a wife or something?”

He chuckled wryly at that. “Worried I’ll get in trouble bringing a bird home?”

“No,” she spat, repulsed by the unsubtle implication. “Just — just wondering.”

Want to make sure you’re not a sociopath, was what she clearly wanted to say, because no doubt a wife and kids at home would at least give him the benefit of perceived normalcy. Unfortunate that she kept asking questions she wouldn’t have liked the answers to.

“No missus,” he said, and she nodded rigidly, an attempt at polite acknowledgment to conceal her assumedly staggering disappointment.

Her pussyfooting was beginning to irk him — wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand the quiet suspicion, the coy little questions about his life as though he had endangered her by rescuing her from a snow squall. Course she couldn’t ask it outright, but he hated watching somebody walk on eggshells almost as much as he hated walking on them himself.

She was twitchy, held her knees together, shuffling in her seat. Waited a long interval before she spoke again, like it was a risk just to talk in his vicinity.

“So it’s — it’s just you? Living in your cabin?”

He let out an irate sigh. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not a serial killer.”

She glared at him like he had just confessed to the opposite. Jaw a little slack, eyes all bulgy.

He rolled his eyes. “If you’re so damn worried I’ll hurt you, I can pull over and drop you and your shit on the side of the road.”

“No — sorry, I wasn’t—” She blurted, and his frustration was quick to melt. “I wasn’t saying that.”

Then he felt guilty. Sudden temper like that would not have done much to quell her scepticism, and while he enjoyed teasing her worries he didn’t necessarily want to prove them right. Not if he was going to have her tucked up in his cabin like a stray cat.

“S’alright,” he grumbled. “Cute bird like you gotta keep her wits about her.”

Her lips flattened and she looked out the window again. He certainly wasn’t doing himself any favours. Maybe he was indeed a sociopath.

“If I — If I stay on your couch tonight, can you take me back to my car tomorrow?” She asked, after a short while, arms crossed now that her hands had warmed up.

“That car is dead,” He jeered. “Y’wont be driving it anywhere.”

She let out a sharp sigh. “I could just wait by it and hitchhike, or—”

“You’d be waiting a week.”

“How would you know?” She hissed. “I’m sure truckers drive by all the time.”

“Think a trucker’ll be nicer than me?”

A fraction of a second was long enough to betray that she didn’t think so either.

Strangers on backcountry service roads were hit and miss, and for a bird like her, most likely more misses than hits. He bet the first bastard to have picked her up would have been a cash-swindling hick or a leery old rapist, and God only knows where they’d be headed to or from. She’d eventually come around to realising he was probably the best she could have hoped for.

“Haven’t been that mean, have I?” He pushed, sardonicism on his tongue, glancing at her with a smirk.

“A bit abrasive,” she grumbled, looking directly out of the windshield, no doubt his gaze was making her uncomfortable.

“Abrasive, eh?” He chortled. “Nice way to put it.”

“I just — I just want to make sure I can get back to civilisation,” she murmured. “Will you please drive me to Hazelton in the morning?”

She wouldn’t have liked the truth, so he decided not to tell it to her — that the likelihood of the roads being driveable by morning was slim to none. That the snowstorm was forecasted to last a few days at the least. That the dumping of snow was unseasonable and unprecedented and the meteorologists on the radio were calling it indisputable evidence of climate change. Something we haven't seen since St. John’s Snowmageddon, they said, stock up on emergency supplies and stay indoors. Stay indoors. Stay indoors.

“Sure,” he huffed. “If the road’s open I’ll take ya.”

She deflated at that. Shoulders softened with a long sigh and a feeble nod. Knot of tension in the air unwound with it.

“Thank you,” she said.

He’d deal with the fallout come morning.

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mudisgranapat · 4 months ago

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baguette squad 🥖🥖🥖

CLAIR OBSCUR: EXPEDITION 33 (2025) dev. Sandfall Interactive

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mudisgranapat · 4 months ago

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"I should have thought of you. I should have given you a chance to say goodbye. I'm truly sorry, Verso."

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mudisgranapat · 4 months ago

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Soap was out for the weekend — something about visiting family, though you suspected it had more to do with getting away from the shared apartment before one of you killed the other over dishes or laundry. Which left you and Ghost.

You’d fully planned to spend the entire weekend bed rotting: snacks, shitty TV, no pants. And for most of Saturday, that dream lived.

Until Ghost texted.

Need a favor. Bringing a bird back. Keep her entertained while I sort my room? Won’t be long.

You stared at the message, squinting (you groaned out loud) but you knew you were not about to leave him hanging. You hit him with a reluctant “fine.” Simon Riley asking you for help with his latest one-night stand? That was new. He usually kept his personal business separate.

But whatever. You owed him for covering your ass on last week’s op. And you were bored. So you sighed, peeled yourself off the couch, and tried to make yourself look slightly less feral before they arrived.

Door opens and in comes Ghost with his date. She’s cute. Really cute, actually. A little overdressed for your disaster of a living room but she doesn't seem fazed. Ghost gives you both an awkward nod before disappearing down the hall, leaving you two sitting there with the tv quietly playing some nonsense reality show you left on.

Bubbly, a little flirty — the total opposite of Ghost’s usual cold, dead-eyed energy. And when you offered her a drink while Ghost disappeared down the hall, she plopped down next to you on the couch, all easy smiles and sparkling eyes.

It started with harmless small talk. Then she complimented your shirt. Then your hair. Then her hand was on your thigh, and she’s laughing at something stupid you said, leaning in a little too close, and then—it just happens. You’re kissing her, your brain going oh shit oh shit oh shit the whole time.

So now here you were. Making out with Ghost’s date on the couch. In your shared apartment. While wearing pajamas. On a random Saturday.

Cue Ghost walking back in mid-moment, stopping dead in the doorway. His eyes narrow behind the mask, you can feel the betrayal radiating off him. Like you just snatched his last protein bar. His date pulls back, breathless and giggly, and Ghost just grumbles something like, "Right. Brilliant." before motioning for her to follow him to his room.

You don’t say anything. You just sink deeper into the couch, cheeks burning, cursing whatever magnetic chaos field you must emit.

An hour later, you’re finally knocked out in your room when there’s a soft knock at your door. You crack it open, and there she is. Disheveled, mischievous smirk on her lips.

“Thought I’d come spend more time with you…” she purrs.

You just stare at her, sleep-addled and brain-buffering like a dial-up connection. Because now you’ve officially entered roommate hell.

You wake up feeling like you’ve been hit by a truck. Mostly because you barely slept. The girl—Ghost's girl—ended up staying way longer than you meant for her to. Things got...a bit intense. Now it’s morning, your head’s pounding, and you can already feel the awkward tension waiting for you out there like a landmine.

You shuffle out of your room in a hoodie and joggers, trying to pretend you’re just going to get a glass of water and not about to face the consequences of your crimes. But the second you step into the kitchen, he’s there.

Ghost. Sitting at the table, arms crossed, mask still on, staring at you like you personally set fire to his car.

You both just stand there in silence for a beat.

Then he speaks, voice flat as a goddamn pancake: "Sleep well? Or...too busy for that?"

You blink. Your brain offers no defense. None. "Si—" "Nah," he cuts you off, shaking his head, scoffing under his breath. "Pied off. In my own fuckin’ flat."

You wince. Because, yeah, he’s not wrong.

You go for the fridge just to do something and he keeps going, muttering like he’s talking more to himself than to you: "Bring a bird back, and she’s in your room by midnight. Unreal. Soap leaves for one weekend and the place turns into Love Island."

You choke on your sip of water, trying not to laugh because that’ll only make it worse.

"Don’t know why I even bother," Ghost grumbles, getting up from the table with heavy steps. "Tell you what—next time, you pull, I’ll keep her entertained for you, yeah? See how you like it."

You try to apologize, but he’s already halfway down the hall, muttering: "Never trusting you with a favor again. Bloody traitor."

Meanwhile, Soap texts the group chat from Scotland, oblivious: "Morning, lads! Miss me yet? 👊😂"

Ghost leaves him on read. You don’t even dare reply.

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mudisgranapat · 5 months ago

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a silly drawing

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mudisgranapat · 6 months ago

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target practice

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mudisgranapat · 7 months ago

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𝖾𝗑-𝖿𝗐𝖻!𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 “𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵” 𝗋𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝗑 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗐𝖻!𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 “𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘱” 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗑 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖼𝗐 : 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾, 𝗉𝗎𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝖾𝗑, 𝗏𝗈𝗒𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗆

𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗋𝖻.

𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒. 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍. 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒.

𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖺𝖼 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅.

𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒'𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾—𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇. 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉. 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗂𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉. 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆, 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽—𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍. 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎—𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍—𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗉𝖽𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗉. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍.

𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈. 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌—𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌, 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗉, 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗀𝗁—𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌, 𝗉𝗎𝖻𝗌, 𝖼𝖺𝖿é𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗆𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝗂𝗇 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽.

𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾, 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗒𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽. 𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍.

𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝖺𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾. 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗉, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗒. 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒, 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾—𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇’𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗇𝗎𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐.

𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗒. 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗎𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒. 𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿𝖿—𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅𝗌; 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒. 𝗌𝗈, 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋.

𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒. 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 ��𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗒𝗆, 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗒.

𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗅𝗎𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗂𝗇 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒'𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗇𝗈, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍—𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆.

𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒; 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽. 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾—𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆? 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗒𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅, 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍.

𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈—𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗎𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗀𝗒𝗆. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗎𝗉𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒'𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗌. 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍.

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗒𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒'𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀?

"𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯' 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘺𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘓.𝘛.?" 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒, 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍. 𝗂𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀. "𝘯𝘢𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯' 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦, 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘦 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘸."

𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 ��𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇.

"𝘯𝘢𝘩, 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴. 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴." 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄. 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗒𝖾𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 "𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭" 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇?

𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙨, 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙨.

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