“Dear John,” she whispered. If he had eaten food, this wouldn't have happened. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. “Fuck you, Julian Rimbauer. C. ‘Dunderhead.
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