Chapter 5 part 2.2

<47 DAYS OF HELL>(8)

✧TWISTED REALITY(2)✧

The tension felt thick in the air as we realized Magnolia was nowhere to be seen. She had been right there beside us just moments ago, her familiar presence anchoring the strange, foreboding space around us. Now, her absence was a haunting reminder of how quickly things could go wrong here.

“Where the hell did she go?” Astrid muttered, his voice sharp with a mix of anger and worry. He looked around, his hand tightening around hi s gun as he scanned the shadows of the empty orphanage.

“We’ll find her,” I said, forcing the words out with a calm I didn’t feel. But each of us was on edge, our eyes darting between the shadowy doorways and empty hallways, as if Magnolia’s ghost might appear at any moment.

Just as I was about to call out, I noticed something strange—the remaining children were gathered nearby, their eyes hollow, like shadows of kids I’d once known. There were only ten of them left. I could remember, almost clearly, that there had been more of them here the last time. The math didn’t add up.

As if sensing our arrival, the orphanage’s director, Mark, emerged from the shadows. His face was pale, the lines around his eyes harsher than I remembered, his smile cold. His eyes landed on me with a strange intensity, and without warning, he strode toward me, his voice seething.

“Where the hell were you?” he growled, his hand gripping my shoulder with bruising force. Before I could answer, he swung his fist, aiming to strike, his knuckles mere inches from my face.

Before I could flinch or react, the shot rang out, cutting through the silence. Ji-hyeon had drawn her pistol, firing a warning shot into the air.

“Back off, Mark,” she said coldly, her eyes narrowing. “Or I won’t miss next time.”

Mark looked at her, an odd mix of rage and something close to pity in his expression. With a sharp, humorless laugh, he dropped his grip on me and stepped back, glancing between us all.

“Good luck,” he said, his tone dripping with something darker than contempt. “You’ll need it.” And with that, he turned and disappeared down the hall, his footsteps echoing like the whisper of a threat.

Astrid, bristling with anger, moved forward, checking the children for signs of distress. But as we got closer, we realized that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Their eyes were empty, too empty, as if their minds had been hollowed out and replaced with… something else. They moved as a unit, their steps too synchronized, their gazes fixed and blank.

“Something’s wrong with them,” Alexei muttered, his voice shaking slightly as he lowered his rifle.

“We can’t lea ve them like this,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Maybe there’s a way to snap them out of it.”

But as I reached out to speak to the first child, their eyes locked onto me, dark and filled with something malevolent. The air felt heavy, as if charged with a dark force that clung to their every breath. Astrid stepped forward, raising his weapon.

“They’re infected,” he hissed, his gaze hard. “Look at them. They’re not… not themselves anymore.” He lifted his rifle, aiming, his finger tight on the trigger.

“No,” Alexei said firmly, placing a hand on Astrid’s arm. “They’re still children. We don’t know if they can be saved.”

Astrid glared but lowered his weapon, his jaw clenched. I stepped forward, trying to reach the boy closest to me. His gaze flickered, and I thought, just for a second, that he was coming back to himself.

“Hey,” I said softly. “It’s okay. You’re safe. Remember me?”

The boy’s expression softened, a flicker of recognition breaking through the darkness in his eyes. I dared to breathe, to hope—until he lunged forward with a sudden snarl, his teeth sinking into my arm with a strength I didn’t know he had.

“Ah—!” I screamed, the pain sharp and blinding as his jaw clamped down, ripping into flesh. Blood flowed down my arm, staining the snow at my feet. I tried to pull back, but his grip was too strong, his gaze filled with something animalistic.

Astrid reacted instantly, raising his photon gun and firing. The bullet sped through the air faster than sound, piercing the boy with a flash of blue light. He crumpled to the ground, the life drained from his body. I stumbled back, clutching my bleeding arm, a sick twist of grief and horror tightening in my chest.

One by one, we tried to reach the others, but each child’s mind was a cage of shadows, a prison of something that twisted and controlled them from the inside. Every attempt to connect, to pull them back, ended the same way—with a flash of blue light and another body falling to the ground. Alexei’s expression grew darker with each shot, his gaze lingering on me each time, as if he saw every failure as a scar we would all carry.

When the last of the children lay silent in the snow, the orphanage felt emptier than ever, a husk of what it had once been. My hands shook, the blood still warm on my skin. I couldn’t bring myself to kill a single one of them. I had watched Astrid, Alexei, and Ji-hyeon do what they had to, but something in me refused to take a life, even as they lunged at me, their eyes filled with that unnatural darkness.

We regrouped in silence, the weight of what we’d just done pressing down on us. But there was no time to dwell on it—Magnolia was still missing. We moved through the orphanage’s halls, the walls echoing with the memories of laughter and voices that had long faded.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw her—a figure in the dim light, standing in the shadows with a gun in her hand. It was Magnolia, but something in her eyes was different, her gaze distant, as if she were trapped in a world only she could see.

“Magnolia?” I called softly, taking a step forward.

Her gaze snapped to me, but there was no recognition in her eyes. She raised her photon gun, her hands steady as she aimed.

“Get down!” Alexei yelled, but the shot rang out before I could react. I barely dodged, the beam searing past my shoulder.

“She’s not… She’s not herself,” Ji-hyeon murmured, her face pale. Magnolia moved with a mechanical precision, firing again, forcing us to scatter.

“Magnolia! It’s us!” Astrid shouted, his voice desperate as he raised his own weapon. But she didn’t respond, her face emotionless as she advanced, firing round after round.

I raised my gun, hesitating, my hand shaking as I aimed. She was Magnolia—our friend, our ally. But whatever had taken over her mind was ruthless, merciless.

Each shot she fired echoed through the hollow halls, a relentless, deadly rhythm. Alexei and Ji-hyeon fired back, their bullets slicing through the air, but Magnolia dodged with an unnatural speed, her movements fluid and precise. I tried to call out to her again, to reach the person I knew was still somewhere inside, but my voice was lost in the chaos.

A shot grazed her, and she staggered, her gaze flickering for a brief moment. But it was enough. Alexei moved forward, his gun aimed, his expression a mask of determination as he closed the gap. Magnolia raised her weapon, her hands shaking, her eyes momentarily unfocused.

Then, with a sharp intake of breath, she collapsed to the ground, unconscious. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of our ragged breathing.

Ji-hyeon clutched her side, blood seeping through her fingers from a wound that looked deeper than she’d let on. She leaned against the wall, her face pale as she met my gaze, her eyes steady.

“It’s… it’s over, for now,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

We gathered ourselves, each step a reminder of the pain, the weight of what we’d just endured. I could barely bring myself to look at Magnolia, lying there on the ground, her face peaceful in unconsciousness—a cruel contrast to the violence that had just taken place.

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The sun had set, casting long shadows across the orphanage as we made our way to the rooftop. By the time we reached it, the sky was a deep, bruised blue, the last light of day fading into darkness. My watch read 6:30 p.m.

We stood there, silent, the cold wind biting into our skin as we looked out over the landscape, the snow blanketing everything in an eerie stillness. The horrors of the day hung over us, unspoken, a weight that words couldn’t begin to lift.

But as we stood there, bruised and bloodied, I c ouldn’t shake the fee ling that something even darker aw aited us in the shadows.

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Short story 6

Astrid Jensen’s initiation into the Foundation began with an encounter that felt more like a descent into a new kind of darkness than any purposeful step forward. It was as if he’d been led into the heart of the storm that had claimed his sister, a storm that churned beneath the skin of reality itself. The work of the Foundation pulled him through shattered, forgotten places, through cities fractured by greed and desperation. His task was to investigate the phenomena and entities that defied understanding, horrors only whispered about in the far corners of the world. But to Astrid, these entities held an odd allure, a macabre promise that perhaps, somewhere within their chaos, there was a clue about Freja’s disappearance.

In his time with the Foundation, Astrid encountered a total of six documented phenomena and entities. Of those, four were classified as "Phenomena"—shifts in reality, distortions of the senses that preyed on those who crossed their boundaries. The remaining two were "Entities"—beings that moved with their own cold intent, predatory and relentless.

The first was what the Foundation called "The Echo Fog." Astrid encountered it while stationed in the abandoned remnants of a coastal town near Tromsø, where a strange, low fog had settled over the empty streets. The fog, they warned, had peculiar qualities—it absorbed sound, swallowing voices and footsteps, even the wind. But as Astrid ventured further, he felt something more disturbing than silence. The fog seemed to trap memories, his own and those of others who had walked through it before. He heard whispers within the mist, fragments of conversations he’d had with Freja, her laughter fading into eerie, broken echoes.

The fog wrapped around him like a cocoon, and within its depths, he saw flickers of faces—lost villagers, forgotten souls staring at him through translucent eyes. His skin prickled as he walked, every step stirring memories long buried. One face appeared clearly—Freja’s, lips moving soundlessly, her eyes wide with some unspeakable fear. Her mouth opened, forming words, but they came out as strangled echoes that slipped through his grasp. He reached for her, but she dissolved into the mist, and he was left alone, breathless, the ache of grief sharper than ever. His footsteps led him out of the fog, but he felt as though a piece of him had been left behind, swallowed by that silent gray.

The second phenomenon was the "Still Mirror," an eerie distortion of reflections. During a Foundation investigation in an underground bunker beneath an old mansion in Dresden, Astrid encountered it for the first time. The phenomenon appeared in a large, dust-covered mirror, cracked and darkened with age. Yet, as Astrid stood before it, the reflection that looked back at him did not mirror his movements. Instead, his reflection remained frozen, staring at him with hollow eyes that seemed to widen, as if in growing fear. When he lifted his hand, his reflection did not; when he turned, it stayed fixed, unmoving, its eyes pleading, as if warning him to leave.

In a sickening twist, the reflection shifted, changing subtly, its face warping into someone he’d thought long lost—Freja. She stared at him from within the mirror, her face contorted, her mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. She pressed her hands against the glass, her knuckles white, her eyes brimming with terror. Astrid took a step closer, hands trembling as he reached for her. But then she vanished, and in her place, his own reflection stared back, eyes now hollow, as though he had just watched something unspeakable. He left the bunker with a numb, icy dread lodged in his chest.

The third phenomenon, the "Unraveling Clock," was encountered in the ruins of an old school, where a clock tower loomed, still ticking against the decay. This clock, however, marked a time that had begun to unravel. Standing beneath it, Astrid saw his own life unfold in reverse—the hands of the clock spinning backward in fits and starts. Memories surfaced with each movement, moments he'd buried—the laughter of children, the quiet nights spent with Freja, the weight of her absence. But as the hands reversed further, the memories grew darker. He saw flashes of pain, of himself standing alone at her empty grave, of his hands covered in snow and blood.

The most horrifying moment came when he glimpsed something buried deep, a memory he could not recall having lived. He saw himself, much older, face creased with lines of grief, his hands trembling as he held a small blue scarf—the same one Freja had worn the night she vanished. His heart thundered, and the clock spun faster, the image dissolving, replaced by the sensation of suffocating cold, of being buried alive beneath a weight of snow. He stumbled from the tower, leaving the ghostly ticking behind, feeling as though a part of him had just died in that frozen, haunted place.

The fourth phenomenon, named "The Weeping Walls," was found in an abandoned hospital in eastern Europe. The walls here were not merely damp—they were alive, and they wept blood. As he walked through the decaying corridors, dark, viscous trails of blood seeped from the walls, trickling down in thin, pulsing streams. The metallic stench filled the air, clinging to his clothes and skin as he moved through the narrow hallways.

He heard sobs, soft, sorrowful, as if the walls themselves were grieving, each trickle of blood a tear shed for those who had died there. The hospital was riddled with rumors of atrocities—patients left to die, experiments conducted in the dark of night. As he walked, the blood seemed to follow him, oozing closer, spreading into the shapes of handprints, like desperate fingers clawing at freedom. The sobs grew louder, filling his ears until he could hardly hear his own heartbeat. At one point, a handprint smeared itself on his shoulder, leaving a cold, wet stain. He left the hospital, haunted by the sense that he’d been marked, claimed by something in that place that would follow him, waiting in the shadows.

The first entity, known as "The Murmuring Presence," was a creature of pure sound, invisible but unmistakable. Astrid first encountered it in an abandoned church outside Berlin. It manifested as a voice, whispering softly, its tone mocking yet somehow soothing. The voice knew him intimately, addressing him by name, weaving its words through his own memories, calling him back to nights spent beneath the stars with Freja.

As he strained to see it, the voice twisted, transforming into a chorus of voices—children, adults, all murmuring his deepest fears, his hidden shame. It hissed about Freja’s fate, mocking him, suggesting she was still lost, suffering, in pain he could never reach. The voices grew louder, overlapping, until his head felt like it would split. In his desperation, he fired blindly, the shots echoing uselessly, the voices laughing, mocking, always just out of reach.

The final entity, and the one that nearly shattered him, was "The Hollow Man." Astrid encountered this being in a derelict factory on the outskirts of a forgotten city. The Hollow Man was a grotesque figure, tall and impossibly thin, its limbs too long, its eyes hollow voids that seemed to draw light and warmth into themselves. It had no mouth, yet it breathed, each exhale a chilling draft that sent shivers through his bones.

The Hollow Man moved slowly, dragging itself across the floor, its gaze fixed on him. When it reached him, it extended one skeletal hand, its bony fingers pressing against his chest, cold as death. Astrid felt something inside him seize, a flash of agony as the creature seemed to draw something from him. His vision blurred, and in that moment, he saw flashes of Freja—her face pale, her eyes wide with fear as though trapped in a nightmare.

Desperately, he tried to pull away, but the Hollow Man’s grip tightened, its fingers sinking into his flesh, his skin burning with an icy fire. When he finally broke free, his chest was raw, a shallow wound oozing blood. But what hurt more was the emptiness inside, as if it had taken something from him, some small, vital part he would never reclaim.

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Astrid emerged from each encounter a little more hollowed out, his eyes darker, his gaze harder. He was a man burdened by memories, haunted by his sister’s disappearance and by the horrors he faced in his work. Each phenomenon and entity took a piece of him, slowly whittling away at the person he’d once been, leaving only a ghost of the man who had once wandered the snowy forests of his homeland, searching for answers he might never find.

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Ｔｈｅ ｅｎｄｌｅｓｓ ｖｏｉｄ ｐｕｌｌｓ ｍｅ ｄｏｗｎ, ａｎｄ ｍｙ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ ｓｏｕ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅｌ ｆａｌｌ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅｓ ｉｎ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅｔｏ ｄａｒｋｎ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅｅｓｓ, ｄｒｉｆｔｉｎ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅｇ ｆｕｒｔ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅｈｅｒ ｗｈｅｒｅ ｌｉｇｈｔ ｃａｎｎｏｔ ｒｅａｃｈ — ｗ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅｈｙ ｃ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅａｎ’ｔ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ Ｉ ｓ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅｉｍｐｌｙ ｒｅｓｔ ａｎｄ ｂｅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ ｆｒｅｅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ

✧

Time paradox Law T̷̖̑̃̽̚ḧ̸̩́r̴̼̎͝e̴̱͙͑e̷͓͔̘͛ ̶̧͇̙̲̍̕͝w̴̹͉̥̜̄̏ḩ̷̡̣͍͛̂̔ę̴̥̠̪̀̔͐͑ṇ̷̻̬͝ ̶̱͙̳̤̈́̒̅ T̶̛̛̛̘̅̐̆͊̓̽̾͋̈́̽̍̋͐̔̀̾̃͗̆̈͐͌̈̎̈́̿̈́̔̿͆̇̋͋̊̆̆͊̿̚͘͘̕̚͝͠w̶̨̢̨͚̪̘̱̫̭̟̹̰̖̪̖͙̤̣̭͉͍̯̏̑̔̉̽̑̆̉̉͗͠͝ơ̷̡͍͔͉̼͍̩̖͎̲̰̱͚͓̲̦̬̤̝͔̫̠͈͚̤͇͎͕̜̱̣̩̹̘̹̻̦̗̞͇͎̤̲̗̓̒̽̒́͂̽̀̿̈́́̈͑̂̄̌̋̅̽̿̍͑͒́̏̆͂͊̀̍̓͐̓̔̕̕͜͜ ̶̨̡̨̧̡̢̡̦͈͓͉̻̥̫̳̻̱͚̜̼͈̭̥̞̱̤̟̼̳̗͉̤̙̹̝̯̤̣̞͈̝̜̅̑̃̊͗̈́̽͆͐͑̓̊̂͌͋̓̍͂̄͊́̃̈́̕̚̚͘͘͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅe̵̡̨̡̛͉̼̰͙̘͇̱̹̮͖͕̲̩͚͖̳̥͕̝̤̞͖̰̯̖̘̲͇͚͖̪̮͇͗͜ͅͅņ̸̬͚̟̜̦͙͖̝̖̗̫͙̰̖͕̲̟̟͖͕̦̮͌̍́͑̏̍̀́̾͐͐̏̅̆̒̓̈́̽͠͠͝ẗ̶̛͔̼̯͍͊̏͒̌̈́̓̋̒̉́͊͛͌̎̾̔͒͗͆̈́̋̀́͛͠͝͝͝į̸̢̢̢̧̨̛̳͚͉͖͚̣̠̖̩̳̖̙̖̾͗̀̃͂͌̓̐̈͐̆̚͜ţ̷̯̯̩̼̠̲̻͎͔̜̤̦͈̱̩̦̳̜̹̹̪̲͚͖̪̲̞̱͖͚͚̻̻͔̙̃͌̓̈́́̃̋̈́͐̀̑̏͛͊̒̊̈͗̿̈́̃̾̊͋́͗̈́͌͒͌͘͜ͅį̷̛̻͍̜̭̝͕̣̬̥̖̮̻͕̟͕͑́̃̎̀̀́̓̾̆͋̀̈́̐̓̈̓̌̀̓̏̒͆̑̕̚̕͝͝͝ͅę̷̨̡̡͉̺̗͚̤̲͇͚̦͖̺̭͉͙̫̰͙͑͌̈́̈̈́̿̊̾̓́͒̈̿̈́̌͗͌̔͑̐́͐́͛́͑̍̄̃̿̏̇̕̕̚͠ş̶̞̪͕̙̺̬͖̮̳̹̬͖̫̪͔̗̞͖̬̘̻̘͓̠̪̞̮̮̙̞̽̎̑̓͐̔̊̐̀̀̔̆̏̀̈́̉̚͜͜͜ͅ ̸̧̨̡̢̭̭̥͔̹͚̯͚̙̰̖͇̩̲̖̗̬̜͕̖͕̙̬̭͕̞͕̘͔̠̲̹̭̤̰̯͉̦̬͚͕̳͉̱̘̀́͒̉̿̈́̐̓̓̆͛̕̚͠ͅ —̴̨̧̧̡̯̯̬̟̰̮̹̙̼̼͔̳͇̯̥͍̹̰̣͖̱͉͇̬͇͚̩̻͍̯̱̫̺̹̣͉̖̗͓̓͌̈́̓̄͂̾̌̽̋̊̐̓̆́̿́͂͛̆̐̒̂̑̈̿̇̆͊̈́͘͘͝ͅͅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ ̸̨̩̝͙̳̱̻̞̥̞̱̗̹̭͇́̾̈̌͒̋̈́͑̈̈́̉̀̑̈́͑̉̐͊̀͗͊́̏̓̂͂̇̔̀͘͝͝ͅ

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