FATE//B0UND Chapter 19 The Torture Of Takahashi Juro

I don't want to die.

There are millions of jagged hot knives piercing into every crevice in my body.

I'm in the dark, simply falling.

I cannot rely on any senses, for they all fail, one by one.

Every single part of my existence is on fire. A fire I want to put out.

Please, put it out!

IT HURTS!

IT HURTS!!

_________________________________________________________________

"Takahashi, are you alright?"

The voice snapped him out of his daze.

It was Scáthach, her steady gaze assessing him.

The warm, amber light of the nearby torches illuminated the room, casting flickering shadows across the polished table and the servants assembled around it.

Juro stood there, wide-eyed, his face drained of all color.

He gripped his shirt, his nails digging into his skin.

Blood began to trail.

He barely registered Scáthach's words.

And then, without warning, his legs buckled, and he fell over, a wave of nausea surging through him as he fell from his chair.

He gagged, clutching his stomach, and expelled whatever little was left in him onto the polished floor.

The room was thrown into chaos as the servants rushed over to him.

Nightingale was the first to slide over the table, catching him as he slumped forward.

"Quick! Someone, get a medical team here immediately!" Edison's voice barked in urgency.

Juro sat alone in the white medical bay, staring at his hand, still trembling.

Click.

He sighed.

The sound of a closing door jolted him, breaking his daze.

He looked at his palm, tracing the faint lines as if to convince himself he was still real, still here.

He was talking to Nightingale, out in the bridge walkway… that much he remembered. But then, something—no, someone—had attacked them.

And Nightingale…

Juro shuddered, shutting his eyes, unwilling to think of the memory of her faceless corpse.

And yet she was alive, as if nothing had happened.

He turned his gaze to the clock on the wall. 8:50. The same time as when he'd first gone out to look for Jeanne Alter.

Had time reset somehow?

Juro had seen shows with a premise like this, but actually living through it was quite strange to say the least.

"Miss Nightingale, he's stable—"

A voice from outside the room.

"What have your check-ups concluded?" Nightingale's stern voice interrupted from the hall.

The nurse hesitated. "It appears he went through a severe shock, but there's no lasting physical damage—ah, Miss! You're not supposed to enter yet—"

"I am a nurse, am I not?"

The door clicked open as Nightingale walked in, her pace at a quick speed.

Juro sat up, forcing a smile. "I'm fine, really, Nightingale, no need to—"

But she didn't wait.

Ignoring his protests, she opened his mouth to check his throat, took his pulse, and even measured his forehead temperature against hers.

She moved with intensity, her brow furrowed as if he was still closed to fainting.

Finally, she sat on the edge of his bed, locking her eyes onto his, searching him with a piercing gaze.

"Takahashi," she said slowly. "What happened?"

Seeing her face this close, alive, unscarred, left him speechless.

It was like seeing someone return from the dead, whole and unharmed. But the memory of her corpse wouldn't leave him—her skull shattered, the mangled remains… He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to retch as he turned away.

"Guess I just… came down with a bad memory," he muttered, his voice strained.

"I think all these singularities are finally getting to me."

"Such responses are common with somatic symptom responses induced by PTSD. You expelled fluids from your digestive system—a visceral reaction."

"PTSD? Really? Now that's just pushing it."

"It's not like I'm curled up in the corner whispering 'kill me' or anything."

She leaned forward.

"It is common for stubborn patients to deny symptoms, even when they need help."

"Hah… sounds about right."

"If you understand that, then you know this stubbornness only hinders recovery."

"..."

"Takahashi, tell me what is wrong. I can help."

"I'm fine! Really! I'm alright. I just… had a scare, but it's not going to happen again."

The truth was, he didn't understand what had just happened well enough to even explain it. How could he possibly tell them about something that defied reason?

About Nightingale's death and his own mangled arm, only to suddenly wake up again, as if none of it had happened?

Nightingale studied him for a moment longer before finally standing, the bed creaking as she rose.

She shot him one last, stern look.

"If it happens again, I will administer a cure whether you want it or not."

"Thanks, Nightingale. You're too nice!"

He called out as she turned around

She left, but Juro knew she'd be watching him like a hawk from now on.

The moment he so much as coughed, she'd come running with some "treatment" whether he wanted it or not.

There was no way a nurse such as Florence Nightingale would be so easily convinced by Juro's promises. Especially when it came to him being 'sick'.

Not to mention she was a berserker.

Once he was alone, he clenched his fists and exhaled.

What had happened?

He thought back over the last few hours, piecing together whatever fragments he could recall.

One thing he knew for sure: a Dead… something, had attacked them.

The same thing Li Shuwen had been sent to kill, was still out there.

Also, somehow, he went back in time, pulling him backward to that exact moment in the conference room, undoing everything he'd just experienced.

"Something's not right," he whispered to himself.

Just then, the door clicked open again, and in walked Emiya, followed by Edison, Robin, Rama and Elizabeth, with Romani's face projected from Juro's watch.

"Master," Emiya said, holding up the watch. "Feeling any better?"

Juro managed a small nod. "Yeah… I think so."

Romani frowned from the watch. "We're still seeing fluctuations in your mana readings. Whatever happened to you hit hard."

He then crossed his arms. "Your brain activity spiked massively before you collapsed. Then you passed out."

Juro laughed nervously.

Emiya narrowed his eyes, glancing over at Romani's projection. "You don't seem too shaken up, Doctor…"

Romani scratched his head with a sigh.

"What can I say at this point? This is classic Juro—always winding up unconscious out of nowhere. I just keep hoping he'll grow out of it one of these days…"

Juro gave a sheepish shrug, managing a half-smile.

"Guess I'm just that kind of character, huh?"

"The kind that makes me nervous for the fate of humanity everytime he's sent out."

"...Can't argue with that one."

Emiya raised an eyebrow. "Still, Doctor, don't you think this might call for a bit more concern?"

Before Romani could respond, Elizabeth suddenly bounded forward, nearly tackling Juro in a hug. Startled, Juro let out a muffled squeak of surprise.

"Puppy! Are you alright?! I was so worried!"

"Don't refer to me as an animal!! Personal space!!" Juro cried, his voice strained as he tried to push her away.

"Talk about an eccentric character," Robin chimed in, smirking as he folded his arms.

"So? Feeling any better? Because you really set us back some time. Given that you're like the poster boy of this operation."

"..."

"I'm joking, our priority is your well-being."

"Haha, yeah. I'm fine now, really, I should be getting back to it in an hour or so." Juro said as he flexed his arm.

"Master, there is no shame in admitting when you need some rest. After all, you are human!" Rama proclaimed.

____________________________________________________________________________

Juro winced, clutching his side as he struggled to take a breath. The night was quiet and unnervingly still.

There were no sounds, save for his heavy breathing.

It was nearly one in the morning—the same time he'd spoken to Nightingale in the previous loop.

But right now, he was on his own, scaling the tower just outside the palace, determined to reach a vantage point.

Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up the next ledge, muscles trembling with the effort.

"Hnn.."

"Hup!"

The thought that he might actually be nearing the end of this horror spurred him on, even as exhaustion clawed at him.

"Hah…Sheesh," he muttered, pausing to catch his breath. "Could this be any harder?"

Finally reaching the top, Juro pulled himself over the edge and collapsed onto the tiles, gasping for air.

It was a beautiful view—a moment of peace that he might've enjoyed if not for the burning ache in his chest.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, keeping his knife ready at his side. This time he'd brought a weapon, hoping it would make some difference against the nightmare he was trapped in.

He looked up towards the bright white moon shimmering in the sky. The bright full moon that stood out from the sea of stars that complemented it.

In a way it reminded him of himself and Fujimaru.

Ordinary souls destined to save humanity.

The stars represented the Heroic Spirits of humanity, Surrounding the moon.

Creak.

Juro's heart leapt.

A blur moved in his periphery, closing in before he could react.

An iron fist slammed into his stomach and flung him backward, launching him off the edge and crashing him into the bridge below.

A brutal impact rattled his body, every nerve screaming. He tried to breathe, but each gasp sent a stab of pain through his ribs.

"Yo."

The voice was deep, mocking.

Juro managed to look up, and his blood ran cold.

Olethros stood there, perched on the bridge's edge with the nonchalance of a man taking a stroll.

That single, yellow eye gleamed from beneath his cloth mask, its gaze too intense, too wrong.

There was something off—something that made Juro feel like he was standing in front of a predator far beyond his comprehension.

A monster wearing the skin of a human.

"Seems you were expecting me," The bloodsucker said. "Too bad you're a bit late."

The mocking tone stoked a smoldering fury in Juro.

But he could feel his limbs freezing up, every instinct screaming at him to run.

"I can't just rush him, he's probably-"

Olethros crossed the distance in a flash, seizing Juro's face in one clawed hand and slamming him backward through the doorway and into the hallway beyond.

Juro hit the floor hard, sliding into a pile of overturned furniture.

Crash!

Various vases and glasses lost their balance as they gave way to gravity, falling on the boy.

Juro's back screamed in protest as he forced himself to his feet, chest heaving as he fumbled to get a grip on his knife.

The flickering lights cast eerie shadows over the hallway, bathing Olethros in a sinister, strobe-like glow as he stepped forward, almost leisurely.

"This… this guy…"

"He's on a completely different level!!"

A sharp, rancid stench clawed at Juro's nose.

He turned his head slightly and saw a corpse beside him, the face torn off, wide, bloodshot eyes and bared teeth frozen in a silent scream.

The fading fat clinging to the muscle stared back at him.

Juro recoiled, stumbling back as Olethros chuckled.

"Now, now. Don't get distracted," Olethros drawled. "I'm right here."

Juro's pulse pounded in his ears, but he forced himself to stay calm, to focus.

Taking a breath, he turned and ran, pushing off so hard he nearly tripped.

The hallway was dim, the walls splattered with blood that gleamed sickly under the lights. Shredded bodies lined the corridor, twisted and piled up like discarded meat.

He ignored the smell of rotting corpses.

Rather, he HAD to, for his sanity would not be able to handle it.

He could feel Olethros's footsteps behind him, stalking him like a cat with a mouse.

He had to reach the meeting room, had to find someone—anyone.

Each breath seared his lungs as he sprinted down the endless, darkened corridors, the lights flickering more and more until he finally spotted the familiar door up ahead.

He seized the knob and twisted, but it wouldn't budge.

"Damn it!" he muttered, pulling back and slamming his shoulder against the door.

It burst open, and he tumbled inside. Juro staggered to his feet, scanning the room.

It was empty.

Empty.

A mounting dread gripped his chest as his heard swayed side to side like a machine, searching for any semblance of life.

"There's no way… there's no way they're all… gone."

A movement in his periphery caught his eye. He turned, the blood draining from his face.

Its neck stretched unnaturally long, shoulders hunched so low that its fingers nearly scraped the floor.

It's head was taller than the doorframe, and something deep inside Juro knew that if he looked at its face, his mind would break.

He swallowed, forcing himself to look away as he backed up slowly.

Without warning, the creature lunged forward.

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!" he screamed, bolting past the doorway and hurtling down the corridor once more.

The smell of blood grew thicker, the sickly scent of rotten flesh hanging heavy in the air.

He ran, nearly slipping as the floor turned slick and sticky beneath his feet due to the sheer amount of blood and fat staining it.

He continued to run, to find someone, ANYONE.

The lights grew more and more dimmed, as they eventually became dark.

He could hear more of those tall, twisted figures appear, lining the corridor as if watching him, their heads swiveling to follow his movements.

He sprinted through the darkened maze, his feet slapping against the putrid sludge coating the floor.

Everyone was dead.

The once alive palace was now only a slaughterhouse, with nothing but the smell and sounds.

Juro felt like a pig running away from his inevitable demise.

He could not trust any of his senses, only his sense of smell.

And his sense of smell could only smell death itself.

I'm going to die again.

I don't want to die.

I don't want to die!

Help me!

He began to scream once again.

"GYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!"

This is hell.

I'm in hell.

Juro sprinted down the corridor, his lungs burning with every frantic breath.

Finally, he skidded to a halt at a dead end. A single, cracked window stood between him and freedom.

Desperation clawed at him.

He turned to smash through it, but before he could act, a hand gripped him with bone-crushing force and hurled him against the wall.

His back slammed into the stone, driving the air from his lungs.

"Trying to escape, huh?"

Olethros's mocking voice sent a chill down Juro's spine.

The monstrous figure loomed closer, his yellow eye glowing like a predator toying with its prey.

"Look at you," Olethros sneered. "The confident protagonist, the perfect savior, the guy who solves everyone's problems. Now? Just a dog. A pathetic, helpless mutt, cornered and trembling."

Juro's eyes darted around the corridor, desperately searching for a way out. But Olethros was already in his face, his presence suffocating, his voice grating like nails on glass.

"Humans," Olethros spat, grabbing Juro by the throat and hoisting him into the air.

"You pretend to be something more. Oh, so brave, so righteous. But strip it all away, and you're nothing. Nothing but flesh and survival instincts. Every single one of you lies to yourselves about what you are. There is no such thing as identity!"

"Khh… K-ghhh…" Juro gasped, clawing at the unyielding grip around his neck. His nails dug into Olethros's arms, but they didn't budge.

The creature's skin felt like stone—unyielding, cold, and unbreakable.

Foam bubbled at the corners of his mouth as his face reddened, veins bulging in his temples. His vision blurred, the edges of his sight darkening as the air was squeezed from his lungs.

"Ah! It's almost stimulating!!"

"Look at you!"

"Not so confident now, huh?! All humans are the same! Put a knife to their throats, and even the strongest of them will beg like animals! That's all you are! Just animals, no, liars wrapped in flesh, pretending to be something greater!"

Juro's eyes met the monster's, his own reflecting raw terror. Olethros leaned in closer, his yellow eye filling Juro's vision like a gaping void.

The spirals in Olethro's eye continued to spin, a swirl of destruction, rotating, uncaring of all in its way.

It was wrong.

It was so wrong.

And then, Juro felt it.

There are worms under my skin.

The thought drilled into his mind, not as a realization but as a horrifying certainty.

There are worms in my skin.

The sensation crept over him—squirming, writhing, tunneling beneath the surface, not even bothering to eat him.

Why are there worms?

The feeling was maddening, overwhelming every other thought.

T H E R E A R E W O R M S I N M Y S K I N.

Olethros released him with a disgusted scoff, letting him collapse to the ground in a heap.

"I can't even be bothered to kill you myself," the Dead Apostle said, turning away.

"You'll do that for me soon enough. Your blood probably tastes like shit anyway."

Juro crumpled to his knees, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The thought was still there, relentless.

The worms.

He could feel them now, under his skin, wriggling through his flesh like a living nightmare.

"Worms…" he whispered, his voice shaking as his trembling hands reached for his arms.

The need to get them out consumed him. He dug his nails into his skin, scratching furiously, desperately.

GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT

Blood began to seep from his forearms as his nails tore through the first layer of flesh, but it wasn't enough.

He could still feel them.

Still feel the worms.

He clawed deeper, ripping at his own arms until chunks of skin peeled away, exposing raw, bleeding muscle.

The pain was unbearable, but it was nothing compared to the horror of the writhing sensation.

Anything to keep the WORMS out.

He kept scratching.

And scratching.

The walls echoed with the sound of nails on flesh, of skin tearing, of labored breaths turning to manic screams of desperation.

"WORMS!!"

WORMS WILL EAT ME

I DONT WANT WORMS TO EAT ME

DONT EAT ME WORMS

Juro's trembling hands, already slick with blood, moved down to his stomach as if compelled by some unseen force.

Scratching.

Scraping.

Digging.

His nails tore at his shirt, ripping it open in one frantic motion.

His bare skin lay exposed to the cold, sterile air, but to Juro, it was alive.

He could feel them—the crawling, wriggling, slithering sensations just beneath the surface.

THEYRE EATING ME

"I'll… I'll get them out…" His voice trembled as his nails dug into his stomach, carving red streaks across his flesh.

The first shallow cuts stung, but the feeling of worms moving—taunting him—beneath his skin drowned out the pain.

He had to go deeper.

Rip.

He tore at the flesh with the zeal of a man possessed.

Blood flowed freely now, pooling around his waist and soaking into his pants. He didn't stop.

Couldn't stop.

G E T O U T G E T O—

G ! e T 0 U— t Ge... T... o..u.t—

GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETGETGETGEGETGETGETOUOUOUOUOUOUOUUUUUTTTTTTT

A wet, tearing sound echoed as his fingers broke the surface of his skin, sinking into the raw tissue beneath.

The feeling was horrific. Warm. Sticky. Every nerve screamed in agony, but his mind was deaf to it.

ONLY WORM MATTER

Something long and fleshy began spilling out from the wounds—his intestines, glowing and pulsating faintly in the dim light.

Juro's breaths came in shallow gasps, his vision blurring as he stared at the coiled mass in his lap.

"WORMS!" he screamed, his voice cracking with hysteria. "GET OUT OF ME! OUT!"

His hands plunged into the gore, pulling at his intestines like they were alien invaders, ripping them out inch by inch.

G̸̜̲̍E̷̻̔ͅȚ̷̦͑ ̴̨͊O̸̜͝U̷̡̪͘T̶̗̆!̵̤̂

G̶̛̱̝̟̙̙̩̘̏̔͆͋͂̍̍̈́ͅE̵̗̘͎̲͓͓͌̊͐̓̋̅̾̃̑͒̾̅͒̍͘Ț̴̳̭̥͔͈͖̝͖̿̑̈́̏̆̓̎̈́̾̆͜͜͠ͅ ̶̗̯̲͓̬͌͋̆͆̇̿̽͆͗̄̀̍͝Ǫ̵͖͒̀͗̋͆͑̆̔͒͋͘͝͝Ư̸̠̓͑̇̈́̇̑͌̏͑̾̒̈́Ṫ̶̡͙̤͕̲͙̮͙̠͓̳̋̾̒̑̐̓͆̀͂̚͝͝!̶̨̩̪͈̗̯͒̄̐̍̈́̕̕!̸̨̡̪̯̤͂̎͆̀͗͊̿̆̈́̈́͠!̷̢̹̩̤̟̳̼̟̪͍̈́̑̀̋̿̎̓̕͘̕͝͝ͅ!̵̩̘̹̟̉̏͋͋̄͑͛̍̊̀̓̄

The pain was unimaginable, but it wasn't enough to overpower the sensation of the WORMS. He saw them everywhere—crawling, squirming—though in truth, there was nothing but blood and bile.

His nails tore at the slippery flesh, his blood-stained fingers slipping as he tried to grab hold of the phantom invaders. He didn't care.

He had to be free.

"I'LL GET YOU OUT! EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!"

His screams echoed in the empty corridor, a horrifying symphony of agony and madness.

The only response to the screams was the cold, unrecognizable corpses lined up against the wall.

His once-bright eyes were now wild and unrecognizable, filled with a primal desperation.

The worms weren't just in his stomach anymore.

They were in his chest, his arms, his brain. He slapped at his head, clawing at his scalp, ripping chunks of hair and skin away.

"GET O̶UT̴! GE̸T O͜ÙT! W̢O̷̡̹͚͕̳̪͕R̛͉͉̤M̸̯S!!"

W̶̟͎̤̯̬̒̈́ͅŐ̶̡͓̈́̀R̷̡̛̹͉̹̗̟̲̗̙͒̌̓̇̕͘̕͠͝ͅM̵̧̥͉͖̬̤̍̐͆̊͑͆̕͠ͅŞ̷̧̥͇̺̘̗̻̱́̇̾́̍̓͜ ̶̧͇͎̖̥̘̝͉̈̽̾̈́̈́̀̈́̚ͅI̶̘̣̼̮̻̗̼̰͙̯͋̀̎͝N̷̢̳͓̜̥͉͔̼̭͌͗͜ ̸̼͓̘̦͉̰̥́̽̏̄̍͒͠M̴͍̐͛̿Y̸̟̔̾͗̐͊͂̏͊ ̵̘̙͚͔̲͉͋Ś̸̟̭͇̖̼̺̪͍̭K̶̨͙̳̦̥̈́̇̾͠Į̵̗̠̘̀̿̅Ñ̷͍̯̐̈̏̓Ẅ̵̢͈̮̲̈́̉̋͑͝Ó̸̺̞̞͈̪̜̩̝̭̩̍͂͂͑͌̈́̓̅Ŗ̵̘͈͚̥̻͕̻̪̍͂͠M̴̢̝̗̠̹̲̃͋̔͋͘ͅṠ̶̰͈̳̱͖͎̹̘̹̽̋ ̷͕̱̝̑͋̓̎́̎̈́͛͠I̵̺͙̒̈́͛̀N̶̳̭̫̘̪̰̋̈́͂ ̷̢̡̨̧̛͖͉̣͊̔̿͜ͅM̵̹͎̪̘̤͎͋̌͗̋̍Y̸̙͓̣͖̅̏̔̈͑͗̉͜ ̶̡̻̗̭͓̺̏͛͆̓̎͛͠͝S̵̨̞̩͙͈̐̈́̃͛͘͜ͅK̶̨̮̖̯͕̗͖̖̮͋͒̈́̅̄͗̿́̋I̵̬̻̼͆͑͑͒͌̓̑́͛̏N̷̨̬͕̯̤̹̻̻͌̄̑͌̇̐̀͘ͅW̵̧̨̬͇̳̲̫̯̤͍̆͆͗́͒͠O̷͔͍̭͇͙̝̍̉̈́͛̆̌͠R̵͕͈͑̈́M̴̮̺̜͚̤͎̓̇̿Ş̶̩͔̑͒ ̶̡̥͕͇̬̪̑I̷̛̫̓͒̿̆͑N̶̨̖͖̠̺͕̆̌̉̑͛͑̏́̐ ̴̨͕̬̄̌̈́̔̉̔M̴̨̨͓̠̦̳͉̞̖͛͗̊́̈́̄̑̐̚̚Ÿ̸̡̢̯͓͔̥́̍̐̑̓͆͌̑̕̚ ̴̡̮̹̔̎̏͑̐̽̓͠Ś̴̛̲̦̖̂̿́K̵͇̭͖̹͎̏͛͊͊͆̆̈́̿̈́͠ͅI̴̳̳͇͔̖͍̘͔͕͂̓̆͛̕̕Ņ̸̛̭̥͇̤͔̥͊͂͜͜Ẉ̵̨̯̞͎̖͍̩̃̐̿̍̈́́͗͆͜O̵̩̺͙̳̫̮̓̈́̓̓͜R̶̢̩̯̰͙͉̤̳̯̎̅̿͐͆͛̃͘M̴̪̼̌͌́ͅS̶̝͊͊̾̾́̍ ̶͔̜̞̱̦͉̮̟̓̑͋͒ͅĪ̴̡͉̥̀̾̄͋͑Ņ̴̡̮̳͔̠̺͚̝̎͒̇̈́ ̵̧̓͘M̶͎͇̭͍͉͇̩̻̮̍̋̃͜͝Y̷͚͋͗̓̐̂̍̑̒ ̸̝̅̔̃̎́͛̈́Ś̷̛͈͚͔̯͔̭͕͇̮́̇͗͋͝͠K̶͈̓͐̊̀I̵͓̱̭̥͇̤̭̘̿͋͒͛N̵̢̹̭̠̻̼̯̆̿͂͐͝W̴͉̻̆ͅƠ̸̖͖͖̠̱̎Ȓ̶̡̠͇͓͚̟̤̂̇̋́̋̅̂͐M̵̢̺̥̻͇͊̃̄́S̶͕͕͕̦̓̇͌̒̚̕͝͝͝ ̶̡̺̱̤̆Ĩ̸̤̬̼̭͕̲͖̙͋͊̿̒̿̚͠N̵̢͎̙͎̊̑͠ ̴̜̓̿̇̊͘͠͝Ṁ̷̲͉͙̮̻͙́̌̐̄̂͘Y̵͔̺̺̠̠͈͚̯͓͇̒͐̒̽̎ ̶̪̝͍̤̲̪̥̃̈́̈́̽S̸͈͖͇̾̀̈̊̿ͅĶ̴̲̣̞͈̯̖͔̱̫̈́İ̵̧̯͔͇̣͑̂̌̽̃̌͠͠N̴̡̨͕̲̭̾̿͗͐̓̂̈́̓̒W̸̡̺̹̺̳̄͊̾̔̎̐͒́̚̕ͅO̵̤̟͓̘͙͕̠̓͘͜Ŗ̴͓̻̞͖͇̭̬̏̿̌̓͗̂͘̚M̷̠̱͖͊̍̀̓̂̄̈́͊S̵̢̢͓̠̗̭̤̟͈̀͜ ̶̨̼̦͉͍͊͗͒̂Ị̸̭̜̠̠̠̎̅͒̂͘Ņ̴̱̟̮̳̹̋̈́̒̕ ̸̱̀̐̊̉̓M̴̛̺͉̺̘̳͚̪̈́̐́̕͜͝͝Ý̴͍̜̗̥͆̑̕͝ ̶̡̧͖̰͉̹͇̥̋̌̔͊̍̑S̷̭̥͎͖̹̬̻̩̯͆̋̈́̈́͘K̵̬̘̓͌Ï̷̢̼̱̠̰̬̼͠͝N̶̗̺̻͈̘͔̿̒̇͋̔̎́͜W̴̦͇̺̖̤̜̼̓̇͑̓̂̽̂̄̇ͅO̵̟͉̩̩̝̝̼̩͝R̷̢͓̯͚̤͈̾M̸̨̬̼̟̻̭̳̄̈́͗̉͝S̶̜̘̗̦͈͙̐ ̸̧̠͛̊̓̆̓̉̇͘̕͝ͅI̸͕̠̟̗̔̇̏̈́̂͂͘͠Ṉ̶̨̯̹͍̽͆͒́͆̾̒̌͘͝ͅ ̴̲̾͗̃̅͗̀̋̃M̷̢͇͔̻̭̱̭͎͍͆̄͗͊͒Y̴̡̡̡̪͈̯̖̠̻̐̎̓͊̎̅͠ ̴̻͎̖̂S̶̜̘̠̦͌̂͘K̵̬̒͝Ḯ̶̥̮̮̟́͑̽̽͆̌̓N̸͉̙̠̤̺̔̀̔̕W̷͓̮̣̔̂́͘̕͝O̶̺̯̙̥̻͌͐͊͑̐̎R̵̡̬͗́̀̒̀̊͐͐̚M̷͈͙̃̈́̂̈́̀̌̈́S̷͉̻̞̤̭̦̪̻̭̦͊̊͐͗̐͂̅͊ ̷̢̨͓̱͖̹̝̿͆̂͜ͅǏ̴̛̱̒̉̇̀͋́̾͝N̶̨̞͍͈̪̫̪͎͛̿ͅ ̴̢̢̖̺̲͔̦͗M̵̬͎̯̙̝̿ͅY̸̱̩̼̤̠̺͉̣͙̽̑̽ ̶̫͎͆̈́S̵̢̲̖͓̬̼̩̯͑̇̍͆́͝K̷͔̭͎̘̹̞̙̦͒̿̈́͐̾͘͜I̶͍͚̋̓̓̈́̅̐͑̓̿N̵̙̘̮͉̝̅̓̅̍͜ͅW̷̯̝̠̘͓̲͇͉̞̑̕͜Ơ̸̪̍̏Ŕ̴͕͊̈́̓͝͠M̴̪̯̩̹͎̱͍͒̅͂̽̈͂S̶͇͙̿̓͗̅͘͝ ̵̤̖̩͔̆Ī̵̳̝͍̤̄Ņ̷͎̺̜̝̅̀̆̽͒̈́̄͌͠ ̴̢̳̱͚̣̯͖̊͠M̵̛͎Y̵̧̫͙̆̿͂ ̵̢̻̯͔͙̌̐S̴̡̫̤̾̈́̑͒͗͝K̵̖͕͛Į̴͚͎̝̭̖̯̹͒͑̒̈́͝Ǹ̸͉̱̭̞͇̩͐͆̑̉͆̉̄̚͝W̸̬̺̦̰̼̫̖̩͉̝̒͗͌̈́͌̈́͛̑̊͘O̴̜̐͋̀́̂̌̿̽̈͘R̵̛̳̻̬̬̘͍͍̼̄̒̃͂͜͝M̷̧͓̥̼͍͔̼̤̪̠͆͑̚S̷̭͂̐̄͋̑̌̃̚ ̷̡̮͎̺͇͖̦̝̙̹͑̆̀̔̎Ḯ̴̗̤͒̽͌̐ͅN̷̡̖̰̮̪̞̮͔̞̄͌̑͌͠͝ ̴̡͔̦͂̓̈Ṃ̸͈̲̰̗̯̲̩͋͂Y̵͓̞͖̥͍̮̜͎̭̱̎̍̃̎͠ ̷̧͕͇̱̰͙̣͐̽̆̈́S̷̥̩͇̺̜̈̓̇̋̃́̑̊͜͠K̷̢̖̭͙̩̤͍̲̫͈̅̃̉͒̕͝Ì̸̢̡͙̬̪͎͆́̅N̷̲̺̹̾̆͒̌͑̚Ẅ̷̛͉̖͎̊̂͐́O̶̜̳̯͈͛̽̐͛̊̇́̊̓̕R̷̖̱̼̲̗̄̐̕͜M̴͕̠̥̘͖͎̋͊ͅŚ̵͈͙̝͙̬͖̽ ̸̧̛̛͔̤̾̌͊͛̀̊̈́͑I̶̖̔N̶̮̘̻͇̩̬̮̺̽̔͐̐͂͗͗̈́͊͜ ̵̭̩̙͍̳̭͓̼͈́M̴̛̗͙̣̙̗͙̤̾̂́̓̐̍͝Y̸͈̟͙͇̔̆͊͂̾̄̊̇͘ ̷̹̳͎͉̣̎̄S̷͕̍̍K̵̩̲̗̭̊́͘͘Í̶̯̯̯͑̑̒̈́̕͠N̴̢̞̈́̉͛̑̍̄̌͋͐̚W̷͕͈̅̓̽̇͝O̷̮̺̝̕Ṙ̷̨̨̮̪̭̗͈͚̓̂͂͑̕͠M̴̝̭̈́́͂̚͝Ṡ̴̛̫̪̳͈͂͂͂͛̕͠ ̷̗͎̣̲̆̐̌̿͊̇̆̒I̷̢̛̻̙̗̼͕̫̱͚͜Ṋ̶̡̮̮͕̥͕̮̈̑̒̀͑̀̔ ̴͇͈͒͐̈̉́̓͐̕̚͝M̷̮̺͍͓͍̂̈́̑̏̔͜Ý̸̡̧̜̤̯͉̖̭̒̇́ͅ ̴̢̯̥͍̯̼̻̪̞̂̀̿̈̓͐̄̓S̴̛̭̦̘̰̍̐̅̀͐͗̚͠K̸̤̀̈́I̴̮̱̼̎̾͗̋͘͠Ṉ̷̱̯͋̈́̓͊̉̏̕W̸̧̢͍̩̝͔̬̰̦̰̏̎͆̇Ơ̵̢̞̩̞̳̙̫̹̂̓͜͜Ŗ̵͍̦̥̲̦̮͈͙́̀͗M̷̢̮̘̦̫̳̮̈́̋̽̆͒͛͜S̷̘̤͒̓̈̈́͌ ̶̡̔̂I̸̻̙̬͝ͅN̶̨͎̮̫̘̠̩͆̉̓̚ ̷͙̱̩̝̬͎̒̉̉̇̏͛͋͠M̶͔̩̭̦̹͛Y̸͖͚̬̘͇̭͍̩̅̍̔͌̔̾̾͂̈́̕ ̴̙̬̭̊̍̊̄̂͐͌̚S̵̛̝͎͍͈̭͇̞͋̄͒̒̀͝K̸͉͈̬͚͊͂͋̆̽̾̀͆I̶̺͔̟̲͋͠Ṇ̴̯̭͔̼̐̔̿̀̈́̆͘͘͘͝W̷̨̝̻̽͑̄̓̔̎͌̀̕͝Ṍ̴̡͎R̸̪̱̫̰̼͚̋͠M̶̢̝̬̹͖̠̤͎̭͑͑̊̽̌S̷̮̼̗͔̯͍͔̪̣̍̽̏̒̌͜ ̴̨̛͇̩͒̎̑͆̓̕͠͠Į̵̹̱̘͔̭̦̑̏̓͊̓̚͘͜͜N̶̮̯̈̀͐͑̈́͋ ̵̦̗͉͊̒̒̇͌̉Ḿ̸̬̆̌̂̆̏̍̆Y̶̡̧̮͔̳̳͚̜̑͜ͅ ̵͈͚͓͓̞͌̓S̴̡̨̟̪̪̫̬̙̬̽̿̄̓̀̚K̴̰͉͉̩̓̓̌I̶̜̠̳͓̤̟͆̅̅̑̈́̈́́͌͘͝ͅͅN̷͓͙̊̉̈͘W̵̟̗̠̤͚̱̤̝̱̖̊͛͛͋̈̆̋̚O̵̡̢̮̪͔̫̲͝R̷̨̧͉̺̞͑͆̽͠M̷̗̺̳̙̖͆͋͘̚S̸͚̗̥̖͓͖͚͛̑̑͑̔͊͐̕ ̸̡̭̖͙̾̃́̊̃̋̈́̓̕Ị̵͂̾̊̍̂̾̅͂̅͂Ň̶̖̾̎̋̂̀͆̓͝͝ͅ ̵̮̹̩̗̜͆͋͐̾͂̂̌̚͜M̴̛͎̯͎̲̦̗͈̏͂͒͂̅̋̕̚͝Y̴̧͕̝͚͖͖̳̓̐̀́̅ ̵̛̜̅́́͜S̵̟̟̼̳̮̪͍̭̲̊̇͐̎̚͠K̵̤̲͓͍̇̃̓̈̊̃̚͠͝I̸̛̛͔̾́͌̓̑́̍͗N̶̠̣̰̖̰̹̟̺͆̿͋Ẁ̷͓͇͕̀̊O̶̥̣̦̒̈̋̄̒͊͌͛́R̸̛̯̦̞̺̈́͛̌̈́̏̂̕M̵̮̾̽̋͠S̶̘͕̰̦̠̯̙̦̣͌͂̉̾̂͑͠ ̴̦̪͉̯͕̞͂̍̄̆́͒I̴̪̭̫̙̮̊͐͘͝͝N̵̢̲̬̜̩̗̓͜ ̷̨͇͙͙̣̟̥͙͈̎̍̾̌̀͌́ͅM̸̧̨̙̞͔̩̤̥̗̼͋̓͛̾̉͆͛Ỹ̷̱̞͚̯͋ ̸̫̯̫̈́̉͆̈́S̸͔͙̻̼̫̖͉̰̿͋͑͘K̵̥̹̤͎̳̲̗͇͙͒I̷̥͋͐̆̾N̶̰̙̘͙̤̲͊̄̅̎̑̓̀́W̶̟͎̤̯̬̒̈́ͅŐ̶̡͓̈́̀R̷̡̛̹͉̹̗̟̲̗̙͒̌̓̇̕͘̕͠͝ͅM̵̧̥͉͖̬̤̍̐͆̊͑͆̕͠ͅŞ̷̧̥͇̺̘̗̻̱́̇̾́̍̓͜ ̶̧͇͎̖̥̘̝͉̈̽̾̈́̈́̀̈́̚ͅI̶̘̣̼̮̻̗̼̰͙̯͋̀̎͝N̷̢̳͓̜̥͉͔̼̭͌͗͜ ̸̼͓̘̦͉̰̥́̽̏̄̍͒͠M̴͍̐͛̿Y̸̟̔̾͗̐͊͂̏͊ ̵̘̙͚͔̲͉͋Ś̸̟̭͇̖̼̺̪͍̭K̶̨͙̳̦̥̈́̇̾͠Į̵̗̠̘̀̿̅Ñ̷͍̯̐̈̏̓Ẅ̵̢͈̮̲̈́̉̋͑͝Ó̸̺̞̞͈̪̜̩̝̭̩̍͂͂͑͌̈́̓̅Ŗ̵̘͈͚̥̻͕̻̪̍͂͠M̴̢̝̗̠̹̲̃͋̔͋͘ͅṠ̶̰͈̳̱͖͎̹̘̹̽̋ ̷͕̱̝̑͋̓̎́̎̈́͛͠I̵̺͙̒̈́͛̀N̶̳̭̫̘̪̰̋̈́͂ ̷̢̡̨̧̛͖͉̣͊̔̿͜ͅM̵̹͎̪̘̤͎͋̌͗̋̍Y̸̙͓̣͖̅̏̔̈͑͗̉͜ ̶̡̻̗̭͓̺̏͛͆̓̎͛͠͝S̵̨̞̩͙͈̐̈́̃͛͘͜ͅK̶̨̮̖̯͕̗͖̖̮͋͒̈́̅̄͗̿́̋I̵̬̻̼͆͑͑͒͌̓̑́͛̏N̷̨̬͕̯̤̹̻̻͌̄̑͌̇̐̀͘ͅW̵̧̨̬͇̳̲̫̯̤͍̆͆͗́͒͠O̷͔͍̭͇͙̝̍̉̈́͛̆̌͠R̵͕͈͑̈́M̴̮̺̜͚̤͎̓̇̿Ş̶̩͔̑͒ ̶̡̥͕͇̬̪̑I̷̛̫̓͒̿̆͑N̶̨̖͖̠̺͕̆̌̉̑͛͑̏́̐ ̴̨͕̬̄̌̈́̔̉̔M̴̨̨͓̠̦̳͉̞̖͛͗̊́̈́̄̑̐̚̚Ÿ̸̡̢̯͓͔̥́̍̐̑̓͆͌̑̕̚ ̴̡̮̹̔̎̏͑̐̽̓͠Ś̴̛̲̦̖̂̿́K̵͇̭͖̹͎̏͛͊͊͆̆̈́̿̈́͠ͅI̴̳̳͇͔̖͍̘͔͕͂̓̆͛̕̕Ņ̸̛̭̥͇̤͔̥͊͂͜͜Ẉ̵̨̯̞͎̖͍̩̃̐̿̍̈́́͗͆͜O̵̩̺͙̳̫̮̓̈́̓̓͜R̶̢̩̯̰͙͉̤̳̯̎̅̿͐͆͛̃͘M̴̪̼̌͌́ͅS̶̝͊͊̾̾́̍ ̶͔̜̞̱̦͉̮̟̓̑͋͒ͅĪ̴̡͉̥̀̾̄͋͑Ņ̴̡̮̳͔̠̺͚̝̎͒̇̈́ ̵̧̓͘M̶͎͇̭͍͉͇̩̻̮̍̋̃͜͝Y̷͚͋͗̓̐̂̍̑̒ ̸̝̅̔̃̎́͛̈́Ś̷̛͈͚͔̯͔̭͕͇̮́̇͗͋͝͠K̶͈̓͐̊̀I̵͓̱̭̥͇̤̭̘̿͋͒͛N̵̢̹̭̠̻̼̯̆̿͂͐͝W̴͉̻̆ͅƠ̸̖͖͖̠̱̎Ȓ̶̡̠͇͓͚̟̤̂̇̋́̋̅̂͐M̵̢̺̥̻͇͊̃̄́S̶͕͕͕̦̓̇͌̒̚̕͝͝͝ ̶̡̺̱̤̆Ĩ̸̤̬̼̭͕̲͖̙͋͊̿̒̿̚͠N̵̢͎̙͎̊̑͠ ̴̜̓̿̇̊͘͠͝Ṁ̷̲͉͙̮̻͙́̌̐̄̂͘Y̵͔̺̺̠̠͈͚̯͓͇̒͐̒̽̎ ̶̪̝͍̤̲̪̥̃̈́̈́̽S̸͈͖͇̾̀̈̊̿ͅĶ̴̲̣̞͈̯̖͔̱̫̈́İ̵̧̯͔͇̣͑̂̌̽̃̌͠͠N̴̡̨͕̲̭̾̿͗͐̓̂̈́̓̒W̸̡̺̹̺̳̄͊̾̔̎̐͒́̚̕ͅO̵̤̟͓̘͙͕̠̓͘͜Ŗ̴͓̻̞͖͇̭̬̏̿̌̓͗̂͘̚M̷̠̱͖͊̍̀̓̂̄̈́͊S̵̢̢͓̠̗̭̤̟͈̀͜ ̶̨̼̦͉͍͊͗͒̂Ị̸̭̜̠̠̠̎̅͒̂͘Ņ̴̱̟̮̳̹̋̈́̒̕ ̸̱̀̐̊̉̓M̴̛̺͉̺̘̳͚̪̈́̐́̕͜͝͝Ý̴͍̜̗̥͆̑̕͝ ̶̡̧͖̰͉̹͇̥̋̌̔͊̍̑S̷̭̥͎͖̹̬̻̩̯͆̋̈́̈́͘K̵̬̘̓͌Ï̷̢̼̱̠̰̬̼͠͝N̶̗̺̻͈̘͔̿̒̇͋̔̎́͜W̴̦͇̺̖̤̜̼̓̇͑̓̂̽̂̄̇ͅO̵̟͉̩̩̝̝̼̩͝R̷̢͓̯͚̤͈̾M̸̨̬̼̟̻̭̳̄̈́͗̉͝S̶̜̘̗̦͈͙̐ ̸̧̠͛̊̓̆̓̉̇͘̕͝ͅI̸͕̠̟̗̔̇̏̈́̂͂͘͠Ṉ̶̨̯̹͍̽͆͒́͆̾̒̌͘͝ͅ ̴̲̾͗̃̅͗̀̋̃M̷̢͇͔̻̭̱̭͎͍͆̄͗͊͒Y̴̡̡̡̪͈̯̖̠̻̐̎̓͊̎̅͠ ̴̻͎̖̂S̶̜̘̠̦͌̂͘K̵̬̒͝Ḯ̶̥̮̮̟́͑̽̽͆̌̓N̸͉̙̠̤̺̔̀̔̕W̷͓̮̣̔̂́͘̕͝O̶̺̯̙̥̻͌͐͊͑̐̎R̵̡̬͗́̀̒̀̊͐͐̚M̷͈͙̃̈́̂̈́̀̌̈́S̷͉̻̞̤̭̦̪̻̭̦͊̊͐͗̐͂̅͊ ̷̢̨͓̱͖̹̝̿͆̂͜ͅǏ̴̛̱̒̉̇̀͋́̾͝N̶̨̞͍͈̪̫̪͎͛̿ͅ ̴̢̢̖̺̲͔̦͗M̵̬͎̯̙̝̿ͅY̸̱̩̼̤̠̺͉̣͙̽̑̽ ̶̫͎͆̈́S̵̢̲̖͓̬̼̩̯͑̇̍͆́͝K̷͔̭͎̘̹̞̙̦͒̿̈́͐̾͘͜I̶͍͚̋̓̓̈́̅̐͑̓̿N̵̙̘̮͉̝̅̓̅̍͜ͅW̷̯̝̠̘͓̲͇͉̞̑̕͜Ơ̸̪̍̏Ŕ̴͕͊̈́̓͝͠M̴̪̯̩̹͎̱͍͒̅͂̽̈͂S̶͇͙̿̓͗̅͘͝ ̵̤̖̩͔̆Ī̵̳̝͍̤̄Ņ̷͎̺̜̝̅̀̆̽͒̈́̄͌͠ ̴̢̳̱͚̣̯͖̊͠M̵̛͎Y̵̧̫͙̆̿͂ ̵̢̻̯͔͙̌̐S̴̡̫̤̾̈́̑͒͗͝K̵̖͕͛Į̴͚͎̝̭̖̯̹͒͑̒̈́͝Ǹ̸͉̱̭̞͇̩͐͆̑̉͆̉̄̚͝W̸̬̺̦̰̼̫̖̩͉̝̒͗͌̈́͌̈́͛̑̊͘O̴̜̐͋̀́̂̌̿̽̈͘R̵̛̳̻̬̬̘͍͍̼̄̒̃͂͜͝M̷̧͓̥̼͍͔̼̤̪̠͆͑̚S̷̭͂̐̄͋̑̌̃̚ ̷̡̮͎̺͇͖̦̝̙̹͑̆̀̔̎Ḯ̴̗̤͒̽͌̐ͅN̷̡̖̰̮̪̞̮͔̞̄͌̑͌͠͝ ̴̡͔̦͂̓̈Ṃ̸͈̲̰̗̯̲̩͋͂Y̵͓̞͖̥͍̮̜͎̭̱̎̍̃̎͠ ̷̧͕͇̱̰͙̣͐̽̆̈́S̷̥̩͇̺̜̈̓̇̋̃́̑̊͜͠K̷̢̖̭͙̩̤͍̲̫͈̅̃̉͒̕͝Ì̸̢̡͙̬̪͎͆́̅N̷̲̺̹̾̆͒̌͑̚Ẅ̷̛͉̖͎̊̂͐́O̶̜̳̯͈͛̽̐͛̊̇́̊̓̕R̷̖̱̼̲̗̄̐̕͜M̴͕̠̥̘͖͎̋͊ͅŚ̵͈͙̝͙̬͖̽ ̸̧̛̛͔̤̾̌͊͛̀̊̈́͑I̶̖̔N̶̮̘̻͇̩̬̮̺̽̔͐̐͂͗͗̈́͊͜ ̵̭̩̙͍̳̭͓̼͈́M̴̛̗͙̣̙̗͙̤̾̂́̓̐̍͝Y̸͈̟͙͇̔̆͊͂̾̄̊̇͘ ̷̹̳͎͉̣̎̄S̷͕̍̍K̵̩̲̗̭̊́͘͘Í̶̯̯̯͑̑̒̈́̕͠N̴̢̞̈́̉͛̑̍̄̌͋͐̚W̷͕͈̅̓̽̇͝O̷̮̺̝̕Ṙ̷̨̨̮̪̭̗͈͚̓̂͂͑̕͠M̴̝̭̈́́͂̚͝Ṡ̴̛̫̪̳͈͂͂͂͛̕͠ ̷̗͎̣̲̆̐̌̿͊̇̆̒I̷̢̛̻̙̗̼͕̫̱͚͜Ṋ̶̡̮̮͕̥͕̮̈̑̒̀͑̀̔ ̴͇͈͒͐̈̉́̓͐̕̚͝M̷̮̺͍͓͍̂̈́̑̏̔͜Ý̸̡̧̜̤̯͉̖̭̒̇́ͅ ̴̢̯̥͍̯̼̻̪̞̂̀̿̈̓͐̄̓S̴̛̭̦̘̰̍̐̅̀͐͗̚͠K̸̤̀̈́I̴̮̱̼̎̾͗̋͘͠Ṉ̷̱̯͋̈́̓͊̉̏̕W̸̧̢͍̩̝͔̬̰̦̰̏̎͆̇Ơ̵̢̞̩̞̳̙̫̹̂̓͜͜Ŗ̵͍̦̥̲̦̮͈͙́̀͗M̷̢̮̘̦̫̳̮̈́̋̽̆͒͛͜S̷̘̤͒̓̈̈́͌ ̶̡̔̂I̸̻̙̬͝ͅN̶̨͎̮̫̘̠̩͆̉̓̚ ̷͙̱̩̝̬͎̒̉̉̇̏͛͋͠M̶͔̩̭̦̹͛Y̸͖͚̬̘͇̭͍̩̅̍̔͌̔̾̾͂̈́̕ ̴̙̬̭̊̍̊̄̂͐͌̚S̵̛̝͎͍͈̭͇̞͋̄͒̒̀͝K̸͉͈̬͚͊͂͋̆̽̾̀͆I̶̺͔̟̲͋͠Ṇ̴̯̭͔̼̐̔̿̀̈́̆͘͘͘͝W̷̨̝̻̽͑̄̓̔̎͌̀̕͝Ṍ̴̡͎R̸̪̱̫̰̼͚̋͠M̶̢̝̬̹͖̠̤͎̭͑͑̊̽̌S̷̮̼̗͔̯͍͔̪̣̍̽̏̒̌͜ ̴̨̛͇̩͒̎̑͆̓̕͠͠Į̵̹̱̘͔̭̦̑̏̓͊̓̚͘͜͜N̶̮̯̈̀͐͑̈́͋ ̵̦̗͉͊̒̒̇͌̉Ḿ̸̬̆̌̂̆̏̍̆Y̶̡̧̮͔̳̳͚̜̑͜ͅ ̵͈͚͓͓̞͌̓S̴̡̨̟̪̪̫̬̙̬̽̿̄̓̀̚K̴̰͉͉̩̓̓̌I̶̜̠̳͓̤̟͆̅̅̑̈́̈́́͌͘͝ͅͅN̷͓͙̊̉̈͘W̵̟̗̠̤͚̱̤̝̱̖̊͛͛͋̈̆̋̚O̵̡̢̮̪͔̫̲͝R̷̨̧͉̺̞͑͆̽͠M̷̗̺̳̙̖͆͋͘̚S̸͚̗̥̖͓͖͚͛̑̑͑̔͊͐̕ ̸̡̭̖͙̾̃́̊̃̋̈́̓̕Ị̵͂̾̊̍̂̾̅͂̅͂Ň̶̖̾̎̋̂̀͆̓͝͝ͅ ̵̮̹̩̗̜͆͋͐̾͂̂̌̚͜M̴̛͎̯͎̲̦̗͈̏͂͒͂̅̋̕̚͝Y̴̧͕̝͚͖͖̳̓̐̀́̅ ̵̛̜̅́́͜S̵̟̟̼̳̮̪͍̭̲̊̇͐̎̚͠K̵̤̲͓͍̇̃̓̈̊̃̚͠͝I̸̛̛͔̾́͌̓̑́̍͗N̶̠̣̰̖̰̹̟̺͆̿͋Ẁ̷͓͇͕̀̊O̶̥̣̦̒̈̋̄̒͊͌͛́R̸̛̯̦̞̺̈́͛̌̈́̏̂̕M̵̮̾̽̋͠S̶̘͕̰̦̠̯̙̦̣͌͂̉̾̂͑͠ ̴̦̪͉̯͕̞͂̍̄̆́͒I̴̪̭̫̙̮̊͐͘͝͝N̵̢̲̬̜̩̗̓͜ ̷̨͇͙͙̣̟̥͙͈̎̍̾̌̀͌́ͅM̸̧̨̙̞͔̩̤̥̗̼͋̓͛̾̉͆͛Ỹ̷̱̞͚̯͋ ̸̫̯̫̈́̉͆̈́S̸͔͙̻̼̫̖͉̰̿͋͑͘K̵̥̹̤͎̳̲̗͇͙͒I̷̥͋͐̆̾N̶̰̙̘͙̤̲͊̄̅̎̑̓̀́W̶̟͎̤̯̬̒̈́ͅŐ̶̡͓̈́̀R̷̡̛̹͉̹̗̟̲̗̙͒̌̓̇̕͘̕͠͝ͅM̵̧̥͉͖̬̤̍̐͆̊͑͆̕͠ͅŞ̷̧̥͇̺̘̗̻̱́̇̾́̍̓͜ ̶̧͇͎̖̥̘̝͉̈̽̾̈́̈́̀̈́̚ͅI̶̘̣̼̮̻̗̼̰͙̯͋̀̎͝N̷̢̳͓̜̥͉͔̼̭͌͗͜ ̸̼͓̘̦͉̰̥́̽̏̄̍͒͠M̴͍̐͛̿Y̸̟̔̾͗̐͊͂̏͊ ̵̘̙͚͔̲͉͋Ś̸̟̭͇̖̼̺̪͍̭K̶̨͙̳̦̥̈́̇̾͠Į̵̗̠̘̀̿̅Ñ̷͍̯̐̈̏̓Ẅ̵̢͈̮̲̈́̉̋͑͝Ó̸̺̞̞͈̪̜̩̝̭̩̍͂͂͑͌̈́̓̅Ŗ̵̘͈͚̥̻͕̻̪̍͂͠M̴̢̝̗̠̹̲̃͋̔͋͘ͅṠ̶̰͈̳̱͖͎̹̘̹̽̋ ̷͕̱̝̑͋̓̎́̎̈́͛͠I̵̺͙̒̈́͛̀N̶̳̭̫̘̪̰̋̈́͂ ̷̢̡̨̧̛͖͉̣͊̔̿͜ͅM̵̹͎̪̘̤͎͋̌͗̋̍Y̸̙͓̣͖̅̏̔̈͑͗̉͜ ̶̡̻̗̭͓̺̏͛͆̓̎͛͠͝S̵̨̞̩͙͈̐̈́̃͛͘͜ͅK̶̨̮̖̯͕̗͖̖̮͋͒̈́̅̄͗̿́̋I̵̬̻̼͆͑͑͒͌̓̑́͛̏N̷̨̬͕̯̤̹̻̻͌̄̑͌̇̐̀͘ͅW̵̧̨̬͇̳̲̫̯̤͍̆͆͗́͒͠O̷͔͍̭͇͙̝̍̉̈́͛̆̌͠R̵͕͈͑̈́M̴̮̺̜͚̤͎̓̇̿Ş̶̩͔̑͒ ̶̡̥͕͇̬̪̑I̷̛̫̓͒̿̆͑N̶̨̖͖̠̺͕̆̌̉̑͛͑̏́̐ ̴̨͕̬̄̌̈́̔̉̔M̴̨̨͓̠̦̳͉̞̖͛͗̊́̈́̄̑̐̚̚Ÿ̸̡̢̯͓͔̥́̍̐̑̓͆͌̑̕̚ ̴̡̮̹̔̎̏͑̐̽̓͠Ś̴̛̲̦̖̂̿́K̵͇̭͖̹͎̏͛͊͊͆̆̈́̿̈́͠ͅI̴̳̳͇͔̖͍̘͔͕͂̓̆͛̕̕Ņ̸̛̭̥͇̤͔̥͊͂͜͜Ẉ̵̨̯̞͎̖͍̩̃̐̿̍̈́́͗͆͜O̵̩̺͙̳̫̮̓̈́̓̓͜R̶̢̩̯̰͙͉̤̳̯̎̅̿͐͆͛̃͘M̴̪̼̌͌́ͅS̶̝͊͊̾̾́̍ ̶͔̜̞̱̦͉̮̟̓̑͋͒ͅĪ̴̡͉̥̀̾̄͋͑Ņ̴̡̮̳͔̠̺͚̝̎͒̇̈́ ̵̧̓͘M̶͎͇̭͍͉͇̩̻̮̍̋̃͜͝Y̷͚͋͗̓̐̂̍̑̒ ̸̝̅̔̃̎́͛̈́Ś̷̛͈͚͔̯͔̭͕͇̮́̇͗͋͝͠K̶͈̓͐̊̀I̵͓̱̭̥͇̤̭̘̿͋͒͛N̵̢̹̭̠̻̼̯̆̿͂͐͝W̴͉̻̆ͅƠ̸̖͖͖̠̱̎Ȓ̶̡̠͇͓͚̟̤̂̇̋́̋̅̂͐M̵̢̺̥̻͇͊̃̄́S̶͕͕͕̦̓̇͌̒̚̕͝͝͝ ̶̡̺̱̤̆Ĩ̸̤̬̼̭͕̲͖̙͋͊̿̒̿̚͠N̵̢͎̙͎̊̑͠ ̴̜̓̿̇̊͘͠͝Ṁ̷̲͉͙̮̻͙́̌̐̄̂͘Y̵͔̺̺̠̠͈͚̯͓͇̒͐̒̽̎ ̶̪̝͍̤̲̪̥̃̈́̈́̽S̸͈͖͇̾̀̈̊̿ͅĶ̴̲̣̞͈̯̖͔̱̫̈́İ̵̧̯͔͇̣͑̂̌̽̃̌͠͠N̴̡̨͕̲̭̾̿͗͐̓̂̈́̓̒W̸̡̺̹̺̳̄͊̾̔̎̐͒́̚̕ͅO̵̤̟͓̘͙͕̠̓͘͜Ŗ̴͓̻̞͖͇̭̬̏̿̌̓͗̂͘̚M̷̠̱͖͊̍̀̓̂̄̈́͊S̵̢̢͓̠̗̭̤̟͈̀͜ ̶̨̼̦͉͍͊͗͒̂Ị̸̭̜̠̠̠̎̅͒̂͘Ņ̴̱̟̮̳̹̋̈́̒̕ ̸̱̀̐̊̉̓M̴̛̺͉̺̘̳͚̪̈́̐́̕͜͝͝Ý̴͍̜̗̥͆̑̕͝ ̶̡̧͖̰͉̹͇̥̋̌̔͊̍̑S̷̭̥͎͖̹̬̻̩̯͆̋̈́̈́͘K̵̬̘̓͌Ï̷̢̼̱̠̰̬̼͠͝N̶̗̺̻͈̘͔̿̒̇͋̔̎́͜W̴̦͇̺̖̤̜̼̓̇͑̓̂̽̂̄̇ͅO̵̟͉̩̩̝̝̼̩͝R̷̢͓̯͚̤͈̾M̸̨̬̼̟̻̭̳̄̈́͗̉͝S̶̜̘̗̦͈͙̐ ̸̧̠͛̊̓̆̓̉̇͘̕͝ͅI̸͕̠̟̗̔̇̏̈́̂͂͘͠Ṉ̶̨̯̹͍̽͆͒́͆̾̒̌͘͝ͅ ̴̲̾͗̃̅͗̀̋̃M̷̢͇͔̻̭̱̭͎͍͆̄͗͊͒Y̴̡̡̡̪͈̯̖̠̻̐̎̓͊̎̅͠ ̴̻͎̖̂S̶̜̘̠̦͌̂͘K̵̬̒͝Ḯ̶̥̮̮̟́͑̽̽͆̌̓N̸͉̙̠̤̺̔̀̔̕W̷͓̮̣̔̂́͘̕͝O̶̺̯̙̥̻͌͐͊͑̐̎R̵̡̬͗́̀̒̀̊͐͐̚M̷͈͙̃̈́̂̈́̀̌̈́S̷͉̻̞̤̭̦̪̻̭̦͊̊͐͗̐͂̅͊ ̷̢̨͓̱͖̹̝̿͆̂͜ͅǏ̴̛̱̒̉̇̀͋́̾͝N̶̨̞͍͈̪̫̪͎͛̿ͅ ̴̢̢̖̺̲͔̦͗M̵̬͎̯̙̝̿ͅY̸̱̩̼̤̠̺͉̣͙̽̑̽ ̶̫͎͆̈́S̵̢̲̖͓̬̼̩̯͑̇̍͆́͝K̷͔̭͎̘̹̞̙̦͒̿̈́͐̾͘͜I̶͍͚̋̓̓̈́̅̐͑̓̿N̵̙̘̮͉̝̅̓̅̍͜ͅW̷̯̝̠̘͓̲͇͉̞̑̕͜Ơ̸̪̍̏Ŕ̴͕͊̈́̓͝͠M̴̪̯̩̹͎̱͍͒̅͂̽̈͂S̶͇͙̿̓͗̅͘͝ ̵̤̖̩͔̆Ī̵̳̝͍̤̄Ņ̷͎̺̜̝̅̀̆̽͒̈́̄͌͠ ̴̢̳̱͚̣̯͖̊͠M̵̛͎Y̵̧̫͙̆̿͂ ̵̢̻̯͔͙̌̐S̴̡̫̤̾̈́̑͒͗͝K̵̖͕͛Į̴͚͎̝̭̖̯̹͒͑̒̈́͝Ǹ̸͉̱̭̞͇̩͐͆̑̉͆̉̄̚͝W̸̬̺̦̰̼̫̖̩͉̝̒͗͌̈́͌̈́͛̑̊͘O̴̜̐͋̀́̂̌̿̽̈͘R̵̛̳̻̬̬̘͍͍̼̄̒̃͂͜͝M̷̧͓̥̼͍͔̼̤̪̠͆͑̚S̷̭͂̐̄͋̑̌̃̚ ̷̡̮͎̺͇͖̦̝̙̹͑̆̀̔̎Ḯ̴̗̤͒̽͌̐ͅN̷̡̖̰̮̪̞̮͔̞̄͌̑͌͠͝ ̴̡͔̦͂̓̈Ṃ̸͈̲̰̗̯̲̩͋͂Y̵͓̞͖̥͍̮̜͎̭̱̎̍̃̎͠ ̷̧͕͇̱̰͙̣͐̽̆̈́S̷̥̩͇̺̜̈̓̇̋̃́̑̊͜͠K̷̢̖̭͙̩̤͍̲̫͈̅̃̉͒̕͝Ì̸̢̡͙̬̪͎͆́̅N̷̲̺̹̾̆͒̌͑̚Ẅ̷̛͉̖͎̊̂͐́O̶̜̳̯͈͛̽̐͛̊̇́̊̓̕R̷̖̱̼̲̗̄̐̕͜M̴͕̠̥̘͖͎̋͊ͅŚ̵͈͙̝͙̬͖̽ ̸̧̛̛͔̤̾̌͊͛̀̊̈́͑I̶̖̔N̶̮̘̻͇̩̬̮̺̽̔͐̐͂͗͗̈́͊͜ ̵̭̩̙͍̳̭͓̼͈́M̴̛̗͙̣̙̗͙̤̾̂́̓̐̍͝Y̸͈̟͙͇̔̆͊͂̾̄̊̇͘ ̷̹̳͎͉̣̎̄S̷͕̍̍K̵̩̲̗̭̊́͘͘Í̶̯̯̯͑̑̒̈́̕͠N̴̢̞̈́̉͛̑̍̄̌͋͐̚W̷͕͈̅̓̽̇͝O̷̮̺̝̕Ṙ̷̨̨̮̪̭̗͈͚̓̂͂͑̕͠M̴̝̭̈́́͂̚͝Ṡ̴̛̫̪̳͈͂͂͂͛̕͠ ̷̗͎̣̲̆̐̌̿͊̇̆̒I̷̢̛̻̙̗̼͕̫̱͚͜Ṋ̶̡̮̮͕̥͕̮̈̑̒̀͑̀̔ ̴͇͈͒͐̈̉́̓͐̕̚͝M̷̮̺͍͓͍̂̈́̑̏̔͜Ý̸̡̧̜̤̯͉̖̭̒̇́ͅ ̴̢̯̥͍̯̼̻̪̞̂̀̿̈̓͐̄̓S̴̛̭̦̘̰̍̐̅̀͐͗̚͠K̸̤̀̈́I̴̮̱̼̎̾͗̋͘͠Ṉ̷̱̯͋̈́̓͊̉̏̕W̸̧̢͍̩̝͔̬̰̦̰̏̎͆̇Ơ̵̢̞̩̞̳̙̫̹̂̓͜͜Ŗ̵͍̦̥̲̦̮͈͙́̀͗M̷̢̮̘̦̫̳̮̈́̋̽̆͒͛͜S̷̘̤͒̓̈̈́͌ ̶̡̔̂I̸̻̙̬͝ͅN̶̨͎̮̫̘̠̩͆̉̓̚ ̷͙̱̩̝̬͎̒̉̉̇̏͛͋͠M̶͔̩̭̦̹͛Y̸͖͚̬̘͇̭͍̩̅̍̔͌̔̾̾͂̈́̕ ̴̙̬̭̊̍̊̄̂͐͌̚S̵̛̝͎͍͈̭͇̞͋̄͒̒̀͝K̸͉͈̬͚͊͂͋̆̽̾̀͆I̶̺͔̟̲͋͠Ṇ̴̯̭͔̼̐̔̿̀̈́̆͘͘͘͝W̷̨̝̻̽͑̄̓̔̎͌̀̕͝Ṍ̴̡͎R̸̪̱̫̰̼͚̋͠M̶̢̝̬̹͖̠̤͎̭͑͑̊̽̌S̷̮̼̗͔̯͍͔̪̣̍̽̏̒̌͜ ̴̨̛͇̩͒̎̑͆̓̕͠͠Į̵̹̱̘͔̭̦̑̏̓͊̓̚͘͜͜N̶̮̯̈̀͐͑̈́͋ ̵̦̗͉͊̒̒̇͌̉Ḿ̸̬̆̌̂̆̏̍̆Y̶̡̧̮͔̳̳͚̜̑͜ͅ ̵͈͚͓͓̞͌̓S̴̡̨̟̪̪̫̬̙̬̽̿̄̓̀̚K̴̰͉͉̩̓̓̌I̶̜̠̳͓̤̟͆̅̅̑̈́̈́́͌͘͝ͅͅN̷͓͙̊̉̈͘W̵̟̗̠̤͚̱̤̝̱̖̊͛͛͋̈̆̋̚O̵̡̢̮̪͔̫̲͝R̷̨̧͉̺̞͑͆̽͠M̷̗̺̳̙̖͆͋͘̚S̸͚̗̥̖͓͖͚͛̑̑͑̔͊͐̕ ̸̡̭̖͙̾̃́̊̃̋̈́̓̕Ị̵͂̾̊̍̂̾̅͂̅͂Ň̶̖̾̎̋̂̀͆̓͝͝ͅ ̵̮̹̩̗̜͆͋͐̾͂̂̌̚͜M̴̛͎̯͎̲̦̗͈̏͂͒͂̅̋̕̚͝Y̴̧͕̝͚͖͖̳̓̐̀́̅ ̵̛̜̅́́͜S̵̟̟̼̳̮̪͍̭̲̊̇͐̎̚͠K̵̤̲͓͍̇̃̓̈̊̃̚͠͝I̸̛̛͔̾́͌̓̑́̍͗N̶̠̣̰̖̰̹̟̺͆̿͋Ẁ̷͓͇͕̀̊O̶̥̣̦̒̈̋̄̒͊͌͛́R̸̛̯̦̞̺̈́͛̌̈́̏̂̕M̵̮̾̽̋͠S̶̘͕̰̦̠̯̙̦̣͌͂̉̾̂͑͠ ̴̦̪͉̯͕̞͂̍̄̆́͒I̴̪̭̫̙̮̊͐͘͝͝N̵̢̲̬̜̩̗̓͜ ̷̨͇͙͙̣̟̥͙͈̎̍̾̌̀͌́ͅM̸̧̨̙̞͔̩̤̥̗̼͋̓͛̾̉͆͛Ỹ̷̱̞͚̯͋ ̸̫̯̫̈́̉͆̈́S̸͔͙̻̼̫̖͉̰̿͋͑͘K̵̥̹̤͎̳̲̗͇͙͒I̷̥͋͐̆̾N̶̰̙̘͙̤̲͊̄̅̎̑̓̀́W̶̟͎̤̯̬̒̈́ͅŐ̶̡͓̈́̀R̷̡̛̹͉̹̗̟̲̗̙͒̌̓̇̕͘̕͠͝ͅM̵̧̥͉͖̬̤̍̐͆̊͑͆̕͠ͅŞ̷̧̥͇̺̘̗̻̱́̇̾́̍̓͜ ̶̧͇͎̖̥̘̝͉̈̽̾̈́̈́̀̈́̚ͅI̶̘̣̼̮̻̗̼̰͙̯͋̀̎͝N̷̢̳͓̜̥͉͔̼̭͌͗͜ ̸̼͓̘̦͉̰̥́̽̏̄̍͒͠M̴͍̐͛̿Y̸̟̔̾͗̐͊͂̏͊ ̵̘̙͚͔̲͉͋Ś̸̟̭͇̖̼̺̪͍̭K̶̨͙̳̦̥̈́̇̾͠Į̵̗̠̘̀̿̅Ñ̷͍̯̐̈̏̓Ẅ̵̢͈̮̲̈́̉̋͑͝Ó̸̺̞̞͈̪̜̩̝̭̩̍͂͂͑͌̈́̓̅Ŗ̵̘͈͚̥̻͕̻̪̍͂͠M̴̢̝̗̠̹̲̃͋̔͋͘ͅṠ̶̰͈̳̱͖͎̹̘̹̽̋ ̷͕̱̝̑͋̓̎́̎̈́͛͠I̵̺͙̒̈́͛̀N̶̳̭̫̘̪̰̋̈́͂ ̷̢̡̨̧̛͖͉̣͊̔̿͜ͅM̵̹͎̪̘̤͎͋̌͗̋̍Y̸̙͓̣͖̅̏̔̈͑͗̉͜ ̶̡̻̗̭͓̺̏͛͆̓̎͛͠͝S̵̨̞̩͙͈̐̈́̃͛͘͜ͅK̶̨̮̖̯͕̗͖̖̮͋͒̈́̅̄͗̿́̋I̵̬̻̼͆͑͑͒͌̓̑́͛̏N̷̨̬͕̯̤̹̻̻͌̄̑͌̇̐̀͘ͅW̵̧̨̬͇̳̲̫̯̤͍̆͆͗́͒͠O̷͔͍̭͇͙̝̍̉̈́͛̆̌͠R̵͕͈͑̈́M̴̮̺̜͚̤͎̓̇̿Ş̶̩͔̑͒ ̶̡̥͕͇̬̪̑I̷̛̫̓͒̿̆͑N̶̨̖͖̠̺͕̆̌̉̑͛͑̏́̐ ̴̨͕̬̄̌̈́̔̉̔M̴̨̨͓̠̦̳͉̞̖͛͗̊́̈́̄̑̐̚̚Ÿ̸̡̢̯͓͔̥́̍̐̑̓͆͌̑̕̚ ̴̡̮̹̔̎̏͑̐̽̓͠Ś̴̛̲̦̖̂̿́K̵͇̭͖̹͎̏͛͊͊͆̆̈́̿̈́͠ͅI̴̳̳͇͔̖͍̘͔͕͂̓̆͛̕̕Ņ̸̛̭̥͇̤͔̥͊͂͜͜Ẉ̵̨̯̞͎̖͍̩̃̐̿̍̈́́͗͆͜O̵̩̺͙̳̫̮̓̈́̓̓͜R̶̢̩̯̰͙͉̤̳̯̎̅̿͐͆͛̃͘M̴̪̼̌͌́ͅS̶̝͊͊̾̾́̍ ̶͔̜̞̱̦͉̮̟̓̑͋͒ͅĪ̴̡͉̥̀̾̄͋͑Ņ̴̡̮̳͔̠̺͚̝̎͒̇̈́ ̵̧̓͘M̶͎͇̭͍͉͇̩̻̮̍̋̃͜͝Y̷͚͋͗̓̐̂̍̑̒ ̸̝̅̔̃̎́͛̈́Ś̷̛͈͚͔̯͔̭͕͇̮́̇͗͋͝͠K̶͈̓͐̊̀I̵͓̱̭̥͇̤̭̘̿͋͒͛N̵̢̹̭̠̻̼̯̆̿͂͐͝W̴͉̻̆ͅƠ̸̖͖͖̠̱̎Ȓ̶̡̠͇͓͚̟̤̂̇̋́̋̅̂͐M̵̢̺̥̻͇͊̃̄́S̶͕͕͕̦̓̇͌̒̚̕͝͝͝ ̶̡̺̱̤̆Ĩ̸̤̬̼̭͕̲͖̙͋͊̿̒̿̚͠N̵̢͎̙͎̊̑͠ ̴̜̓̿̇̊͘͠͝Ṁ̷̲͉͙̮̻͙́̌̐̄̂͘Y̵͔̺̺̠̠͈͚̯͓͇̒͐̒̽̎ ̶̪̝͍̤̲̪̥̃̈́̈́̽S̸͈͖͇̾̀̈̊̿ͅĶ̴̲̣̞͈̯̖͔̱̫̈́İ̵̧̯͔͇̣͑̂̌̽̃̌͠͠N̴̡̨͕̲̭̾̿͗͐̓̂̈́̓̒W̸̡̺̹̺̳̄͊̾̔̎̐͒́̚̕ͅO̵̤̟͓̘͙͕̠̓͘͜Ŗ̴͓̻̞͖͇̭̬̏̿̌̓͗̂͘̚M̷̠̱͖͊̍̀̓̂̄̈́͊S̵̢̢͓̠̗̭̤̟͈̀͜ ̶̨̼̦͉͍͊͗͒̂Ị̸̭̜̠̠̠̎̅͒̂͘Ņ̴̱̟̮̳̹̋̈́̒̕ ̸̱̀̐̊̉̓M̴̛̺͉̺̘̳͚̪̈́̐́̕͜͝͝Ý̴͍̜̗̥͆̑̕͝ ̶̡̧͖̰͉̹͇̥̋̌̔͊̍̑S̷̭̥͎͖̹̬̻̩̯͆̋̈́̈́͘K̵̬̘̓͌Ï̷̢̼̱̠̰̬̼͠͝N̶̗̺̻͈̘͔̿̒̇͋̔̎́͜W̴̦͇̺̖̤̜̼̓̇͑̓̂̽̂̄̇ͅO̵̟͉̩̩̝̝̼̩͝R̷̢͓̯͚̤͈̾M̸̨̬̼̟̻̭̳̄̈́͗̉͝S̶̜̘̗̦͈͙̐ ̸̧̠͛̊̓̆̓̉̇͘̕͝ͅI̸͕̠̟̗̔̇̏̈́̂͂͘͠Ṉ̶̨̯̹͍̽͆͒́͆̾̒̌͘͝ͅ ̴̲̾͗̃̅͗̀̋̃M̷̢͇͔̻̭̱̭͎͍͆̄͗͊͒Y̴̡̡̡̪͈̯̖̠̻̐̎̓͊̎̅͠ ̴̻͎̖̂S̶̜̘̠̦͌̂͘K̵̬̒͝Ḯ̶̥̮̮̟́͑̽̽͆̌̓N̸͉̙̠̤̺̔̀̔̕W̷͓̮̣̔̂́͘̕͝O̶̺̯̙̥̻͌͐͊͑̐̎R̵̡̬͗́̀̒̀̊͐͐̚M̷͈͙̃̈́̂̈́̀̌̈́S̷͉̻̞̤̭̦̪̻̭̦͊̊͐͗̐͂̅͊ ̷̢̨͓̱͖̹̝̿͆̂͜ͅǏ̴̛̱̒̉̇̀͋́̾͝N̶̨̞͍͈̪̫̪͎͛̿ͅ ̴̢̢̖̺̲͔̦͗M̵̬͎̯̙̝̿ͅY̸̱̩̼̤̠̺͉̣͙̽̑̽ ̶̫͎͆̈́S̵̢̲̖͓̬̼̩̯͑̇̍͆́͝K̷͔̭͎̘̹̞̙̦͒̿̈́͐̾͘͜I̶͍͚̋̓̓̈́̅̐͑̓̿N̵̙̘̮͉̝̅̓̅̍͜ͅW̷̯̝̠̘͓̲͇͉̞̑̕͜Ơ̸̪̍̏Ŕ̴͕͊̈́̓͝͠M̴̪̯̩̹͎̱͍͒̅͂̽̈͂S̶͇͙̿̓͗̅͘͝ ̵̤̖̩͔̆Ī̵̳̝͍̤̄Ņ̷͎̺̜̝̅̀̆̽͒̈́̄͌͠ ̴̢̳̱͚̣̯͖̊͠M̵̛͎Y̵̧̫͙̆̿͂ ̵̢̻̯͔͙̌̐S̴̡̫̤̾̈́̑͒͗͝K̵̖͕͛Į̴͚͎̝̭̖̯̹͒͑̒̈́͝Ǹ̸͉̱̭̞͇̩͐͆̑̉͆̉̄̚͝W̸̬̺̦̰̼̫̖̩͉̝̒͗͌̈́͌̈́͛̑̊͘O̴̜̐͋̀́̂̌̿̽̈͘R̵̛̳̻̬̬̘͍͍̼̄̒̃͂͜͝M̷̧͓̥̼͍͔̼̤̪̠͆͑̚S̷̭͂̐̄͋̑̌̃̚ ̷̡̮͎̺͇͖̦̝̙̹͑̆̀̔̎Ḯ̴̗̤͒̽͌̐ͅN̷̡̖̰̮̪̞̮͔̞̄͌̑͌͠͝ ̴̡͔̦͂̓̈Ṃ̸͈̲̰̗̯̲̩͋͂Y̵͓̞͖̥͍̮̜͎̭̱̎̍̃̎͠ ̷̧͕͇̱̰͙̣͐̽̆̈́S̷̥̩͇̺̜̈̓̇̋̃́̑̊͜͠K̷̢̖̭͙̩̤͍̲̫͈̅̃̉͒̕͝Ì̸̢̡͙̬̪͎͆́̅N̷̲̺̹̾̆͒̌͑̚Ẅ̷̛͉̖͎̊̂͐́O̶̜̳̯͈͛̽̐͛̊̇́̊̓̕R̷̖̱̼̲̗̄̐̕͜M̴͕̠̥̘͖͎̋͊ͅŚ̵͈͙̝͙̬͖̽ ̸̧̛̛͔̤̾̌͊͛̀̊̈́͑I̶̖̔N̶̮̘̻͇̩̬̮̺̽̔͐̐͂͗͗̈́͊͜ ̵̭̩̙͍̳̭͓̼͈́M̴̛̗͙̣̙̗͙̤̾̂́̓̐̍͝Y̸͈̟͙͇̔̆͊͂̾̄̊̇͘ ̷̹̳͎͉̣̎̄S̷͕̍̍K̵̩̲̗̭̊́͘͘Í̶̯̯̯͑̑̒̈́̕͠N̴̢̞̈́̉͛̑̍̄̌͋͐̚W̷͕͈̅̓̽̇͝O̷̮̺̝̕Ṙ̷̨̨̮̪̭̗͈͚̓̂͂͑̕͠M̴̝̭̈́́͂̚͝Ṡ̴̛̫̪̳͈͂͂͂͛̕͠ ̷̗͎̣̲̆̐̌̿͊̇̆̒I̷̢̛̻̙̗̼͕̫̱͚͜Ṋ̶̡̮̮͕̥͕̮̈̑̒̀͑̀̔ ̴͇͈͒͐̈̉́̓͐̕̚͝M̷̮̺͍͓͍̂̈́̑̏̔͜Ý̸̡̧̜̤̯͉̖̭̒̇́ͅ ̴̢̯̥͍̯̼̻̪̞̂̀̿̈̓͐̄̓S̴̛̭̦̘̰̍̐̅̀͐͗̚͠K̸̤̀̈́I̴̮̱̼̎̾͗̋͘͠Ṉ̷̱̯͋̈́̓͊̉̏̕W̸̧̢͍̩̝͔̬̰̦̰̏̎͆̇Ơ̵̢̞̩̞̳̙̫̹̂̓͜͜Ŗ̵͍̦̥̲̦̮͈͙́̀͗M̷̢̮̘̦̫̳̮̈́̋̽̆͒͛͜S̷̘̤͒̓̈̈́͌ ̶̡̔̂I̸̻̙̬͝ͅN̶̨͎̮̫̘̠̩͆̉̓̚ ̷͙̱̩̝̬͎̒̉̉̇̏͛͋͠M̶͔̩̭̦̹͛Y̸͖͚̬̘͇̭͍̩̅̍̔͌̔̾̾͂̈́̕ ̴̙̬̭̊̍̊̄̂͐͌̚S̵̛̝͎͍͈̭͇̞͋̄͒̒̀͝K̸͉͈̬͚͊͂͋̆̽̾̀͆I̶̺͔̟̲͋͠Ṇ̴̯̭͔̼̐̔̿̀̈́̆͘͘͘͝W̷̨̝̻̽͑̄̓̔̎͌̀̕͝Ṍ̴̡͎R̸̪̱̫̰̼͚̋͠M̶̢̝̬̹͖̠̤͎̭͑͑̊̽̌S̷̮̼̗͔̯͍͔̪̣̍̽̏̒̌͜ ̴̨̛͇̩͒̎̑͆̓̕͠͠Į̵̹̱̘͔̭̦̑̏̓͊̓̚͘͜͜N̶̮̯̈̀͐͑̈́͋ ̵̦̗͉͊̒̒̇͌̉Ḿ̸̬̆̌̂̆̏̍̆Y̶̡̧̮͔̳̳͚̜̑͜ͅ ̵͈͚͓͓̞͌̓S̴̡̨̟̪̪̫̬̙̬̽̿̄̓̀̚K̴̰͉͉̩̓̓̌I̶̜̠̳͓̤̟͆̅̅̑̈́̈́́͌͘͝ͅͅN̷͓͙̊̉̈͘W̵̟̗̠̤͚̱̤̝̱̖̊͛͛͋̈̆̋̚O̵̡̢̮̪͔̫̲͝R̷̨̧͉̺̞͑͆̽͠M̷̗̺̳̙̖͆͋͘̚S̸͚̗̥̖͓͖͚͛̑̑͑̔͊͐̕ ̸̡̭̖͙̾̃́̊̃̋̈́̓̕Ị̵͂̾̊̍̂̾̅͂̅͂Ň̶̖̾̎̋̂̀͆̓͝͝ͅ ̵̮̹̩̗̜͆͋͐̾͂̂̌̚͜M̴̛͎̯͎̲̦̗͈̏͂͒͂̅̋̕̚͝Y̴̧͕̝͚͖͖̳̓̐̀́̅ ̵̛̜̅́́͜S̵̟̟̼̳̮̪͍̭̲̊̇͐̎̚͠K̵̤̲͓͍̇̃̓̈̊̃̚͠͝I̸̛̛͔̾́͌̓̑́̍͗N̶̠̣̰̖̰̹̟̺͆̿͋Ẁ̷͓͇͕̀̊O̶̥̣̦̒̈̋̄̒͊͌͛́R̸̛̯̦̞̺̈́͛̌̈́̏̂̕M̵̮̾̽̋͠S̶̘͕̰̦̠̯̙̦̣͌͂̉̾̂͑͠ ̴̦̪͉̯͕̞͂̍̄̆́͒I̴̪̭̫̙̮̊͐͘͝͝N̵̢̲̬̜̩̗̓͜ ̷̨͇͙͙̣̟̥͙͈̎̍̾̌̀͌́ͅM̸̧̨̙̞͔̩̤̥̗̼͋̓͛̾̉͆͛Ỹ̷̱̞͚̯͋ ̸̫̯̫̈́̉͆̈́S̸͔͙̻̼̫̖͉̰̿͋͑͘K̵̥̹̤͎̳̲̗͇͙͒I̷̥͋͐̆̾N̶̰̙̘͙̤̲͊̄̅̎̑̓̀́W̶̟͎̤̯̬̒̈́ͅŐ̶̡͓̈́̀R̷̡̛̹͉̹̗̟̲̗̙͒̌̓̇̕͘̕͠͝ͅM̵̧̥͉͖̬̤̍̐͆̊͑͆̕͠ͅŞ̷̧̥͇̺̘̗̻̱́̇̾́̍̓͜ ̶̧͇͎̖̥̘̝͉̈̽̾̈́̈́̀̈́̚ͅI̶̘̣̼̮̻̗̼̰͙̯͋̀̎͝N̷̢̳͓̜̥͉͔̼̭͌͗͜ ̸̼͓̘̦͉̰̥́̽̏̄̍͒͠M̴͍̐͛̿Y̸̟̔̾͗̐͊͂̏͊ ̵̘̙͚͔̲͉͋Ś̸̟̭͇̖̼̺̪͍̭K̶̨͙̳̦̥̈́̇̾͠Į̵̗̠̘̀̿̅Ñ̷͍̯̐̈̏̓Ẅ̵̢͈̮̲̈́̉̋͑͝Ó̸̺̞̞͈̪̜̩̝̭̩̍͂͂͑͌̈́̓̅Ŗ̵̘͈͚̥̻͕̻̪̍͂͠M̴̢̝̗̠̹̲̃͋̔͋͘ͅṠ̶̰͈̳̱͖͎̹̘̹̽̋ ̷͕̱̝̑͋̓̎́̎̈́͛͠I̵̺͙̒̈́͛̀N̶̳̭̫̘̪̰̋̈́͂ ̷̢̡̨̧̛͖͉̣͊̔̿͜ͅM̵̹͎̪̘̤͎͋̌͗̋̍Y̸̙͓̣͖̅̏̔̈͑͗̉͜ ̶̡̻̗̭͓̺̏͛͆̓̎͛͠͝S̵̨̞̩͙͈̐̈́̃͛͘͜ͅK̶̨̮̖̯͕̗͖̖̮͋͒̈́̅̄͗̿́̋I̵̬̻̼͆͑͑͒͌̓̑́͛̏N̷̨̬͕̯̤̹̻̻͌̄̑͌̇̐̀͘ͅW̵̧̨̬͇̳̲̫̯̤͍̆͆͗́͒͠O̷͔͍̭͇͙̝̍̉̈́͛̆̌͠R̵͕͈͑̈́M̴̮̺̜͚̤͎̓̇̿Ş̶̩͔̑͒ ̶̡̥͕͇̬̪̑I̷̛̫̓͒̿̆͑N̶̨̖͖̠̺͕̆̌̉̑͛͑̏́̐ ̴̨͕̬̄̌̈́̔̉̔M̴̨̨͓̠̦̳͉̞̖͛͗̊́̈́̄̑̐̚̚Ÿ̸̡̢̯͓͔̥́̍̐̑̓͆͌̑̕̚ ̴̡̮̹̔̎̏͑̐̽̓͠Ś̴̛̲̦̖̂̿́K̵͇̭͖̹͎̏͛͊͊͆̆̈́̿̈́͠ͅI̴̳̳͇͔̖͍̘͔͕͂̓̆͛̕̕Ņ̸̛̭̥͇̤͔̥͊͂͜͜Ẉ̵̨̯̞͎̖͍̩̃̐̿̍̈́́͗͆͜O̵̩̺͙̳̫̮̓̈́̓̓͜R̶̢̩̯̰͙͉̤̳̯̎̅̿͐͆͛̃͘M̴̪̼̌͌́ͅS̶̝͊͊̾̾́̍ ̶͔̜̞̱̦͉̮̟̓̑͋͒ͅĪ̴̡͉̥̀̾̄͋͑Ņ̴̡̮̳͔̠̺͚̝̎͒̇̈́ ̵̧̓͘M̶͎͇̭͍͉͇̩̻̮̍̋̃͜͝Y̷͚͋͗̓̐̂̍̑̒ ̸̝̅̔̃̎́͛̈́Ś̷̛͈͚͔̯͔̭͕͇̮́̇͗͋͝͠K̶͈̓͐̊̀I̵͓̱̭̥͇̤̭̘̿͋͒͛N̵̢̹̭̠̻̼̯̆̿͂͐͝W̴͉̻̆ͅƠ̸̖͖͖̠̱̎Ȓ̶̡̠͇͓͚̟̤̂̇̋́̋̅̂͐M̵̢̺̥̻͇͊̃̄́S̶͕͕͕̦̓̇͌̒̚̕͝͝͝ ̶̡̺̱̤̆Ĩ̸̤̬̼̭͕̲͖̙͋͊̿̒̿̚͠N̵̢͎̙͎̊̑͠ ̴̜̓̿̇̊͘͠͝Ṁ̷̲͉͙̮̻͙́̌̐̄̂͘Y̵͔̺̺̠̠͈͚̯͓͇̒͐̒̽̎ ̶̪̝͍̤̲̪̥̃̈́̈́̽S̸͈͖͇̾̀̈̊̿ͅĶ̴̲̣̞͈̯̖͔̱̫̈́İ̵̧̯͔͇̣͑̂̌̽̃̌͠͠N̴̡̨͕̲̭̾̿͗͐̓̂̈́̓̒W̸̡̺̹̺̳̄͊̾̔̎̐͒́̚̕ͅO̵̤̟͓̘͙͕̠̓͘͜Ŗ̴͓̻̞͖͇̭̬̏̿̌̓͗̂͘̚M̷̠̱͖͊̍̀̓̂̄̈́͊S̵̢̢͓̠̗̭̤̟͈̀͜ ̶̨̼̦͉͍͊͗͒̂Ị̸̭̜̠̠̠̎̅͒̂͘Ņ̴̱̟̮̳̹̋̈́̒̕ ̸̱̀̐̊̉̓M̴̛̺͉̺̘̳͚̪̈́̐́̕͜͝͝Ý̴͍̜̗̥͆̑̕͝ ̶̡̧͖̰͉̹͇̥̋̌̔͊̍̑S̷̭̥͎͖̹̬̻̩̯͆̋̈́̈́͘K̵̬̘̓͌Ï̷̢̼̱̠̰̬̼͠͝N̶̗̺̻͈̘͔̿̒̇͋̔̎́͜W̴̦͇̺̖̤̜̼̓̇͑̓̂̽̂̄̇ͅO̵̟͉̩̩̝̝̼̩͝R̷̢͓̯͚̤͈̾M̸̨̬̼̟̻̭̳̄̈́͗̉͝S̶̜̘̗̦͈͙̐ ̸̧̠͛̊̓̆̓̉̇͘̕͝ͅI̸͕̠̟̗̔̇̏̈́̂͂͘͠Ṉ̶̨̯̹͍̽͆͒́͆̾̒̌͘͝ͅ ̴̲̾͗̃̅͗̀̋̃M̷̢͇͔̻̭̱̭͎͍͆̄͗͊͒Y̴̡̡̡̪͈̯̖̠̻̐̎̓͊̎̅͠ ̴̻͎̖̂S̶̜̘̠̦͌̂͘K̵̬̒͝Ḯ̶̥̮̮̟́͑̽̽͆̌̓N̸͉̙̠̤̺̔̀̔̕W̷͓̮̣̔̂́͘̕͝O̶̺̯̙̥̻͌͐͊͑̐̎R̵̡̬͗́̀̒̀̊͐͐̚M̷͈͙̃̈́̂̈́̀̌̈́S̷͉̻̞̤̭̦̪̻̭̦͊̊͐͗̐͂̅͊ ̷̢̨͓̱͖̹̝̿͆̂͜ͅǏ̴̛̱̒̉̇̀͋́̾͝N̶̨̞͍͈̪̫̪͎͛̿ͅ ̴̢̢̖̺̲͔̦͗M̵̬͎̯̙̝̿ͅY̸̱̩̼̤̠̺͉̣͙̽̑̽ ̶̫͎͆̈́S̵̢̲̖͓̬̼̩̯͑̇̍͆́͝K̷͔̭͎̘̹̞̙̦͒̿̈́͐̾͘͜I̶͍͚̋̓̓̈́̅̐͑̓̿N̵̙̘̮͉̝̅̓̅̍͜ͅW̷̯̝̠̘͓̲͇͉̞̑̕͜Ơ̸̪̍̏Ŕ̴͕͊̈́̓͝͠M̴̪̯̩̹͎̱͍͒̅͂̽̈͂S̶͇͙̿̓͗̅͘͝ ̵̤̖̩͔̆Ī̵̳̝͍̤̄Ņ̷͎̺̜̝̅̀̆̽͒̈́̄͌͠ ̴̢̳̱͚̣̯͖̊͠M̵̛͎Y̵̧̫͙̆̿͂ ̵̢̻̯͔͙̌̐S̴̡̫̤̾̈́̑͒͗͝K̵̖͕͛Į̴͚͎̝̭̖̯̹͒͑̒̈́͝Ǹ̸͉̱̭̞͇̩͐͆̑̉͆̉̄̚͝W̸̬̺̦̰̼̫̖̩͉̝̒͗͌̈́͌̈́͛̑̊͘O̴̜̐͋̀́̂̌̿̽̈͘R̵̛̳̻̬̬̘͍͍̼̄̒̃͂͜͝M̷̧͓̥̼͍͔̼̤̪̠͆͑̚S̷̭͂̐̄͋̑̌̃̚ ̷̡̮͎̺͇͖̦̝̙̹͑̆̀̔̎Ḯ̴̗̤͒̽͌̐ͅN̷̡̖̰̮̪̞̮͔̞̄͌̑͌͠͝ ̴̡͔̦͂̓̈Ṃ̸͈̲̰̗̯̲̩͋͂Y̵͓̞͖̥͍̮̜͎̭̱̎̍̃̎͠ ̷̧͕͇̱̰͙̣͐̽̆̈́S̷̥̩͇̺̜̈̓̇̋̃́̑̊͜͠K̷̢̖̭͙̩̤͍̲̫͈̅̃̉͒̕͝Ì̸̢̡͙̬̪͎͆́̅N̷̲̺̹̾̆͒̌͑̚Ẅ̷̛͉̖͎̊̂͐́O̶̜̳̯͈͛̽̐͛̊̇́̊̓̕R̷̖̱̼̲̗̄̐̕͜M̴͕̠̥̘͖͎̋͊ͅŚ̵͈͙̝͙̬͖̽ ̸̧̛̛͔̤̾̌͊͛̀̊̈́͑I̶̖̔N̶̮̘̻͇̩̬̮̺̽̔͐̐͂͗͗̈́͊͜ ̵̭̩̙͍̳̭͓̼͈́M̴̛̗͙̣̙̗͙̤̾̂́̓̐̍͝Y̸͈̟͙͇̔̆͊͂̾̄̊̇͘ ̷̹̳͎͉̣̎̄S̷͕̍̍K̵̩̲̗̭̊́͘͘Í̶̯̯̯͑̑̒̈́̕͠N̴̢̞̈́̉͛̑̍̄̌͋͐̚W̷͕͈̅̓̽̇͝O̷̮̺̝̕Ṙ̷̨̨̮̪̭̗͈͚̓̂͂͑̕͠M̴̝̭̈́́͂̚͝Ṡ̴̛̫̪̳͈͂͂͂͛̕͠ ̷̗͎̣̲̆̐̌̿͊̇̆̒I̷̢̛̻̙̗̼͕̫̱͚͜Ṋ̶̡̮̮͕̥͕̮̈̑̒̀͑̀̔ ̴͇͈͒͐̈̉́̓͐̕̚͝M̷̮̺͍͓͍̂̈́̑̏̔͜Ý̸̡̧̜̤̯͉̖̭̒̇́ͅ ̴̢̯̥͍̯̼̻̪̞̂̀̿̈̓͐̄̓S̴̛̭̦̘̰̍̐̅̀͐͗̚͠K̸̤̀̈́I̴̮̱̼̎̾͗̋͘͠Ṉ̷̱̯͋̈́̓͊̉̏̕W̸̧̢͍̩̝͔̬̰̦̰̏̎͆̇Ơ̵̢̞̩̞̳̙̫̹̂̓͜͜Ŗ̵͍̦̥̲̦̮͈͙́̀͗M̷̢̮̘̦̫̳̮̈́̋̽̆͒͛͜S̷̘̤͒̓̈̈́͌ ̶̡̔̂I̸̻̙̬͝ͅN̶̨͎̮̫̘̠̩͆̉̓̚ ̷͙̱̩̝̬͎̒̉̉̇̏͛͋͠M̶͔̩̭̦̹͛Y̸͖͚̬̘͇̭͍̩̅̍̔͌̔̾̾͂̈́̕ ̴̙̬̭̊̍̊̄̂͐͌̚S̵̛̝͎͍͈̭͇̞͋̄͒̒̀͝K̸͉͈̬͚͊͂͋̆̽̾̀͆I̶̺͔̟̲͋͠Ṇ̴̯̭͔̼̐̔̿̀̈́̆͘͘͘͝W̷̨̝̻̽͑̄̓̔̎͌̀̕͝Ṍ̴̡͎R̸̪̱̫̰̼͚̋͠M̶̢̝̬̹͖̠̤͎̭͑͑̊̽̌S̷̮̼̗͔̯͍͔̪̣̍̽̏̒̌͜ ̴̨̛͇̩͒̎̑͆̓̕͠͠Į̵̹̱̘͔̭̦̑̏̓͊̓̚͘͜͜N̶̮̯̈̀͐͑̈́͋ ̵̦̗͉͊̒̒̇͌̉Ḿ̸̬̆̌̂̆̏̍̆Y̶̡̧̮͔̳̳͚̜̑͜ͅ ̵͈͚͓͓̞͌̓S̴̡̨̟̪̪̫̬̙̬̽̿̄̓̀̚K̴̰͉͉̩̓̓̌I̶̜̠̳͓̤̟͆̅̅̑̈́̈́́͌͘͝ͅͅN̷͓͙̊̉̈͘W̵̟̗̠̤͚̱̤̝̱̖̊͛͛͋̈̆̋̚O̵̡̢̮̪͔̫̲͝R̷̨̧͉̺̞͑͆̽͠M̷̗̺̳̙̖͆͋͘̚S̸͚̗̥̖͓͖͚͛̑̑͑̔͊͐̕ ̸̡̭̖͙̾̃́̊̃̋̈́̓̕Ị̵͂̾̊̍̂̾̅͂̅͂Ň̶̖̾̎̋̂̀͆̓͝͝ͅ ̵̮̹̩̗̜͆͋͐̾͂̂̌̚͜M̴̛͎̯͎̲̦̗͈̏͂͒͂̅̋̕̚͝Y̴̧͕̝͚͖͖̳̓̐̀́̅ ̵̛̜̅́́͜S̵̟̟̼̳̮̪͍̭̲̊̇͐̎̚͠K̵̤̲͓͍̇̃̓̈̊̃̚͠͝I̸̛̛͔̾́͌̓̑́̍͗N̶̠̣̰̖̰̹̟̺͆̿͋Ẁ̷͓͇͕̀̊O̶̥̣̦̒̈̋̄̒͊͌͛́R̸̛̯̦̞̺̈́͛̌̈́̏̂̕M̵̮̾̽̋͠S̶̘͕̰̦̠̯̙̦̣͌͂̉̾̂͑͠ ̴̦̪͉̯͕̞͂̍̄̆́͒I̴̪̭̫̙̮̊͐͘͝͝N̵̢̲̬̜̩̗̓͜ ̷̨͇͙͙̣̟̥͙͈̎̍̾̌̀͌́ͅM̸̧̨̙̞͔̩̤̥̗̼͋̓͛̾̉͆͛Ỹ̷̱̞͚̯͋ ̸̫̯̫̈́̉͆̈́S̸͔͙̻̼̫̖͉̰̿͋͑͘K̵̥̹̤͎̳̲̗͇͙͒I̷̥͋͐̆̾N̶̰̙̘͙̤̲͊̄̅̎̑̓̀́W̶̟͎̤̯̬̒̈́ͅŐ̶̡͓̈́̀R̷̡̛̹͉̹̗̟̲̗̙͒̌̓̇̕͘̕͠͝ͅM̵̧̥͉͖̬̤̍̐͆̊͑͆̕͠ͅŞ̷̧̥͇̺̘̗̻̱́̇̾́̍̓͜ ̶̧͇͎̖̥̘̝͉̈̽̾̈́̈́̀̈́̚ͅI̶̘̣̼̮̻̗̼̰͙̯͋̀̎͝N̷̢̳͓̜̥͉͔̼̭͌͗͜ ̸̼͓̘̦͉̰̥́̽̏̄̍͒͠M̴͍̐͛̿Y̸̟̔̾͗̐͊͂̏͊ ̵̘̙͚͔̲͉͋Ś̸̟̭͇̖̼̺̪͍̭K̶̨͙̳̦̥̈́̇̾͠Į̵̗̠̘̀̿̅Ñ̷͍̯̐̈̏̓Ẅ̵̢͈̮̲̈́̉̋͑͝Ó̸̺̞̞͈̪̜̩̝̭̩̍͂͂͑͌̈́̓̅Ŗ̵̘͈͚̥̻͕̻̪̍͂͠M̴̢̝̗̠̹̲̃͋̔͋͘ͅṠ̶̰͈̳̱͖͎̹̘̹̽̋ ̷͕̱̝̑͋̓̎́̎̈́͛͠I̵̺͙̒̈́͛̀N̶̳̭̫̘̪̰̋̈́͂ ̷̢̡̨̧̛͖͉̣͊̔̿͜ͅM̵̹͎̪̘̤͎͋̌͗̋̍Y̸̙͓̣͖̅̏̔̈͑͗̉͜ ̶̡̻̗̭͓̺̏͛͆̓̎͛͠͝S̵̨̞̩͙͈̐̈́̃͛͘͜ͅK̶̨̮̖̯͕̗͖̖̮͋͒̈́̅̄͗̿́̋I̵̬̻̼͆͑͑͒͌̓̑́͛̏N̷̨̬͕̯̤̹̻̻͌̄̑͌̇̐̀͘ͅW̵̧̨̬͇̳̲̫̯̤͍̆͆͗́͒͠O̷͔͍̭͇͙̝̍̉̈́͛̆̌͠R̵͕͈͑̈́M̴̮̺̜͚̤͎̓̇̿Ş̶̩͔̑͒ ̶̡̥͕͇̬̪̑I̷̛̫̓͒̿̆͑N̶̨̖͖̠̺͕̆̌̉̑͛͑̏́̐ ̴̨͕̬̄̌̈́̔̉̔M̴̨̨͓̠̦̳͉̞̖͛͗̊́̈́̄̑̐̚̚Ÿ̸̡̢̯͓͔̥́̍̐̑̓͆͌̑̕̚ ̴̡̮̹̔̎̏͑̐̽̓͠Ś̴̛̲̦̖̂̿́K̵͇̭͖̹͎̏͛͊͊͆̆̈́̿̈́͠ͅI̴̳̳͇͔̖͍̘͔͕͂̓̆͛̕̕Ņ̸̛̭̥͇̤͔̥͊͂͜͜Ẉ̵̨̯̞͎̖͍̩̃̐̿̍̈́́͗͆͜O̵̩̺͙̳̫̮̓̈́̓̓͜R̶̢̩̯̰͙͉̤̳̯̎̅̿͐͆͛̃͘M̴̪̼̌͌́ͅS̶̝͊͊̾̾́̍ ̶͔̜̞̱̦͉̮̟̓̑͋͒ͅĪ̴̡͉̥̀̾̄͋͑Ņ̴̡̮̳͔̠̺͚̝̎͒̇̈́ ̵̧̓͘M̶͎͇̭͍͉͇̩̻̮̍̋̃͜͝Y̷͚͋͗̓̐̂̍̑̒ ̸̝̅̔̃̎́͛̈́Ś̷̛͈͚͔̯͔̭͕͇̮́̇͗͋͝͠K̶͈̓͐̊̀I̵͓̱̭̥͇̤̭̘̿͋͒͛N̵̢̹̭̠̻̼̯̆̿͂͐͝W̴͉̻̆ͅƠ̸̖͖͖̠̱̎Ȓ̶̡̠͇͓͚̟̤̂̇̋́̋̅̂͐M̵̢̺̥̻͇͊̃̄́S̶͕͕͕̦̓̇͌̒̚̕͝͝͝ ̶̡̺̱̤̆Ĩ̸̤̬̼̭͕̲͖̙͋͊̿̒̿̚͠N̵̢͎̙͎̊̑͠ ̴̜̓̿̇̊͘͠͝Ṁ̷̲͉͙̮̻͙́̌̐̄̂͘Y̵͔̺̺̠̠͈͚̯͓͇̒͐̒̽̎ ̶̪̝͍̤̲̪̥̃̈́̈́̽S̸͈͖͇̾̀̈̊̿ͅĶ̴̲̣̞͈̯̖͔̱̫̈́İ̵̧̯͔͇̣͑̂̌̽̃̌͠͠N̴̡̨͕̲̭̾̿͗͐̓̂̈́̓̒W̸̡̺̹̺̳̄͊̾̔̎̐͒́̚̕ͅO̵̤̟͓̘͙͕̠̓͘͜Ŗ̴͓̻̞͖͇̭̬̏̿̌̓͗̂͘̚M̷̠̱͖͊̍̀̓̂̄̈́͊S̵̢̢͓̠̗̭̤̟͈̀͜ ̶̨̼̦͉͍͊͗͒̂Ị̸̭̜̠̠̠̎̅͒̂͘Ņ̴̱̟̮̳̹̋̈́̒̕ ̸̱̀̐̊̉̓M̴̛̺͉̺̘̳͚̪̈́̐́̕͜͝͝Ý̴͍̜̗̥͆̑̕͝ ̶̡̧͖̰͉̹͇̥̋̌̔͊̍̑S̷̭̥͎͖̹̬̻̩̯͆̋̈́̈́͘K̵̬̘̓͌Ï̷̢̼̱̠̰̬̼͠͝N̶̗̺̻͈̘͔̿̒̇͋̔̎́͜W̴̦͇̺̖̤̜̼̓̇͑̓̂̽̂̄̇ͅO̵̟͉̩̩̝̝̼̩͝R̷̢͓̯͚̤͈̾M̸̨̬̼̟̻̭̳̄̈́͗̉͝S̶̜̘̗̦͈͙̐ ̸̧̠͛̊̓̆̓̉̇͘̕͝ͅI̸͕̠̟̗̔̇̏̈́̂͂͘͠Ṉ̶̨̯̹͍̽͆͒́͆̾̒̌͘͝ͅ ̴̲̾͗̃̅͗̀̋̃M̷̢͇͔̻̭̱̭͎͍͆̄͗͊͒Y̴̡̡̡̪͈̯̖̠̻̐̎̓͊̎̅͠ ̴̻͎̖̂S̶̜̘̠̦͌̂͘K̵̬̒͝Ḯ̶̥̮̮̟́͑̽̽͆̌̓N̸͉̙̠̤̺̔̀̔̕W̷͓̮̣̔̂́͘̕͝O̶̺̯̙̥̻͌͐͊͑̐̎R̵̡̬͗́̀̒̀̊͐͐̚M̷͈͙̃̈́̂̈́̀̌̈́S̷͉̻̞̤̭̦̪̻̭̦͊̊͐͗̐͂̅͊ ̷̢̨͓̱͖̹̝̿͆̂͜ͅǏ̴̛̱̒̉̇̀͋́̾͝N̶̨̞͍͈̪̫̪͎͛̿ͅ ̴̢̢̖̺̲͔̦͗M̵̬͎̯̙̝̿ͅY̸̱̩̼̤̠̺͉̣͙̽̑̽ ̶̫͎͆̈́S̵̢̲̖͓̬̼̩̯͑̇̍͆́͝K̷͔̭͎̘̹̞̙̦͒̿̈́͐̾͘͜I̶͍͚̋̓̓̈́̅̐͑̓̿N̵̙̘̮͉̝̅̓̅̍͜ͅW̷̯̝̠̘͓̲͇͉̞̑̕͜Ơ̸̪̍̏Ŕ̴͕͊̈́̓͝͠M̴̪̯̩̹͎̱͍͒̅͂̽̈͂S̶͇͙̿̓͗̅͘͝ ̵̤̖̩͔̆Ī̵̳̝͍̤̄Ņ̷͎̺̜̝̅̀̆̽͒̈́̄͌͠ ̴̢̳̱͚̣̯͖̊͠M̵̛͎Y̵̧̫͙̆̿͂ ̵̢̻̯͔͙̌̐S̴̡̫̤̾̈́̑͒͗͝K̵̖͕͛Į̴͚͎̝̭̖̯̹͒͑̒̈́͝Ǹ̸͉̱̭̞͇̩͐͆̑̉͆̉̄̚͝W̸̬̺̦̰̼̫̖̩͉̝̒͗͌̈́͌̈́͛̑̊͘O̴̜̐͋̀́̂̌̿̽̈͘R̵̛̳̻̬̬̘͍͍̼̄̒̃͂͜͝M̷̧͓̥̼͍͔̼̤̪̠͆͑̚S̷̭͂̐̄͋̑̌̃̚ ̷̡̮͎̺͇͖̦̝̙̹͑̆̀̔̎Ḯ̴̗̤͒̽͌̐ͅN̷̡̖̰̮̪̞̮͔̞̄͌̑͌͠͝ ̴̡͔̦͂̓̈Ṃ̸͈̲̰̗̯̲̩͋͂Y̵͓̞͖̥͍̮̜͎̭̱̎̍̃̎͠ ̷̧͕͇̱̰͙̣͐̽̆̈́S̷̥̩͇̺̜̈̓̇̋̃́̑̊͜͠K̷̢̖̭͙̩̤͍̲̫͈̅̃̉͒̕͝Ì̸̢̡͙̬̪͎͆́̅N̷̲̺̹̾̆͒̌͑̚Ẅ̷̛͉̖͎̊̂͐́O̶̜̳̯͈͛̽̐͛̊̇́̊̓̕R̷̖̱̼̲̗̄̐̕͜M̴͕̠̥̘͖͎̋͊ͅŚ̵͈͙̝͙̬͖̽ ̸̧̛̛͔̤̾̌͊͛̀̊̈́͑I̶̖̔N̶̮̘̻͇̩̬̮̺̽̔͐̐͂͗͗̈́͊͜ ̵̭̩̙͍̳̭͓̼͈́M̴̛̗͙̣̙̗͙̤̾̂́̓̐̍͝Y̸͈̟͙͇̔̆͊͂̾̄̊̇͘ ̷̹̳͎͉̣̎̄S̷͕̍̍K̵̩̲̗̭̊́͘͘Í̶̯̯̯͑̑̒̈́̕͠N̴̢̞̈́̉͛̑̍̄̌͋͐̚W̷͕͈̅̓̽̇͝O̷̮̺̝̕Ṙ̷̨̨̮̪̭̗͈͚̓̂͂͑̕͠M̴̝̭̈́́͂̚͝Ṡ̴̛̫̪̳͈͂͂͂͛̕͠ ̷̗͎̣̲̆̐̌̿͊̇̆̒I̷̢̛̻̙̗̼͕̫̱͚͜Ṋ̶̡̮̮͕̥͕̮̈̑̒̀͑̀̔ ̴͇͈͒͐̈̉́̓͐̕̚͝M̷̮̺͍͓͍̂̈́̑̏̔͜Ý̸̡̧̜̤̯͉̖̭̒̇́ͅ ̴̢̯̥͍̯̼̻̪̞̂̀̿̈̓͐̄̓S̴̛̭̦̘̰̍̐̅̀͐͗̚͠K̸̤̀̈́I̴̮̱̼̎̾͗̋͘͠Ṉ̷̱̯͋̈́̓͊̉̏̕W̸̧̢͍̩̝͔̬̰̦̰̏̎͆̇Ơ̵̢̞̩̞̳̙̫̹̂̓͜͜Ŗ̵͍̦̥̲̦̮͈͙́̀͗M̷̢̮̘̦̫̳̮̈́̋̽̆͒͛͜S̷̘̤͒̓̈̈́͌ ̶̡̔̂I̸̻̙̬͝ͅN̶̨͎̮̫̘̠̩͆̉̓̚ ̷͙̱̩̝̬͎̒̉̉̇̏͛͋͠M̶͔̩̭̦̹͛Y̸͖͚̬̘͇̭͍̩̅̍̔͌̔̾̾͂̈́̕ ̴̙̬̭̊̍̊̄̂͐͌̚S̵̛̝͎͍͈̭͇̞͋̄͒̒̀͝K̸͉͈̬͚͊͂͋̆̽̾̀͆I̶̺͔̟̲͋͠Ṇ̴̯̭͔̼̐̔̿̀̈́̆͘͘͘͝W̷̨̝̻̽͑̄̓̔̎͌̀̕͝Ṍ̴̡͎R̸̪̱̫̰̼͚̋͠M̶̢̝̬̹͖̠̤͎̭͑͑̊̽̌S̷̮̼̗͔̯͍͔̪̣̍̽̏̒̌͜ ̴̨̛͇̩͒̎̑͆̓̕͠͠Į̵̹̱̘͔̭̦̑̏̓͊̓̚͘͜͜N̶̮̯̈̀͐͑̈́͋ ̵̦̗͉͊̒̒̇͌̉Ḿ̸̬̆̌̂̆̏̍̆Y̶̡̧̮͔̳̳͚̜̑͜ͅ ̵͈͚͓͓̞͌̓S̴̡̨̟̪̪̫̬̙̬̽̿̄̓̀̚K̴̰͉͉̩̓̓̌I̶̜̠̳͓̤̟͆̅̅̑̈́̈́́͌͘͝ͅͅN̷͓͙̊̉̈͘W̵̟̗̠̤͚̱̤̝̱̖̊͛͛͋̈̆̋̚O̵̡̢̮̪͔̫̲͝R̷̨̧͉̺̞͑͆̽͠M̷̗̺̳̙̖͆͋͘̚S̸͚̗̥̖͓͖͚͛̑̑͑̔͊͐̕ ̸̡̭̖͙̾̃́̊̃̋̈́̓̕Ị̵͂̾̊̍̂̾̅͂̅͂Ň̶̖̾̎̋̂̀͆̓͝͝ͅ ̵̮̹̩̗̜͆͋͐̾͂̂̌̚͜M̴̛͎̯͎̲̦̗͈̏͂͒͂̅̋̕̚͝Y̴̧͕̝͚͖͖̳̓̐̀́̅ ̵̛̜̅́́͜S̵̟̟̼̳̮̪͍̭̲̊̇͐̎̚͠K̵̤̲͓͍̇̃̓̈̊̃̚͠͝I̸̛̛͔̾́͌̓̑́̍͗N̶̠̣̰̖̰̹̟̺͆̿͋Ẁ̷͓͇͕̀̊O̶̥̣̦̒̈̋̄̒͊͌͛́R̸̛̯̦̞̺̈́͛̌̈́̏̂̕M̵̮̾̽̋͠S̶̘͕̰̦̠̯̙̦̣͌͂̉̾̂͑͠ ̴̦̪͉̯͕̞͂̍̄̆́͒I̴̪̭̫̙̮̊͐͘͝͝N̵̢̲̬̜̩̗̓͜ ̷̨͇͙͙̣̟̥͙͈̎̍̾̌̀͌́ͅM̸̧̨̙̞͔̩̤̥̗̼͋̓͛̾̉͆͛Ỹ̷̱̞͚̯͋ ̸̫̯̫̈́̉͆̈́S̸͔͙̻̼̫̖͉̰̿͋͑͘K̵̥̹̤͎̳̲̗͇͙͒I̷̥͋͐̆̾N̶̰̙̘͙̤̲͊̄̅̎̑̓̀́W̶̟͎̤̯̬̒̈́ͅŐ̶̡͓̈́̀R̷̡̛̹͉̹̗̟̲̗̙͒̌̓̇̕͘̕͠͝ͅM̵̧̥͉͖̬̤̍̐͆̊͑͆̕͠ͅŞ̷̧̥͇̺̘̗̻̱́̇̾́̍̓͜ ̶̧͇͎̖̥̘̝͉̈̽̾̈́̈́̀̈́̚ͅI̶̘̣̼̮̻̗̼̰͙̯͋̀̎͝N̷̢̳͓̜̥͉͔̼̭͌͗͜ ̸̼͓̘̦͉̰̥́̽̏̄̍͒͠M̴͍̐͛̿Y̸̟̔̾͗̐͊͂̏͊ ̵̘̙͚͔̲͉͋Ś̸̟̭͇̖̼̺̪͍̭K̶̨͙̳̦̥̈́̇̾͠Į̵̗̠̘̀̿̅Ñ̷͍̯̐̈̏̓Ẅ̵̢͈̮̲̈́̉̋͑͝Ó̸̺̞̞͈̪̜̩̝̭̩̍͂͂͑͌̈́̓̅Ŗ̵̘͈͚̥̻͕̻̪̍͂͠M̴̢̝̗̠̹̲̃͋̔͋͘ͅṠ̶̰͈̳̱͖͎̹̘̹̽̋ ̷͕̱̝̑͋̓̎́̎̈́͛͠I̵̺͙̒̈́͛̀N̶̳̭̫̘̪̰̋̈́͂ ̷̢̡̨̧̛͖͉̣͊̔̿͜ͅM̵̹͎̪̘̤͎͋̌͗̋̍Y̸̙͓̣͖̅̏̔̈͑͗̉͜ ̶̡̻̗̭͓̺̏͛͆̓̎͛͠͝S̵̨̞̩͙͈̐̈́̃͛͘͜ͅK̶̨̮̖̯͕̗͖̖̮͋͒̈́̅̄͗̿́̋I̵̬̻̼͆͑͑͒͌̓̑́͛̏N̷̨̬͕̯̤̹̻̻͌̄̑͌̇̐̀͘ͅW̵̧̨̬͇̳̲̫̯̤͍̆͆͗́͒͠O̷͔͍̭͇͙̝̍̉̈́͛̆̌͠R̵͕͈͑̈́M̴̮̺̜͚̤͎̓̇̿Ş̶̩͔̑͒ ̶̡̥͕͇̬̪̑I̷̛̫̓͒̿̆͑N̶̨̖͖̠̺͕̆̌̉̑͛͑̏́̐ ̴̨͕̬̄̌̈́̔̉̔M̴̨̨͓̠̦̳͉̞̖͛͗̊́̈́̄̑̐̚̚Ÿ̸̡̢̯͓͔̥́̍̐̑̓͆͌̑̕̚ ̴̡̮̹̔̎̏͑̐̽̓͠Ś̴̛̲̦̖̂̿́K̵͇̭͖̹͎̏͛͊͊͆̆̈́̿̈́͠ͅI̴̳̳͇͔̖͍̘͔͕͂̓̆͛̕̕Ņ̸̛̭̥͇̤͔̥͊͂͜͜Ẉ̵̨̯̞͎̖͍̩̃̐̿̍̈́́͗͆͜O̵̩̺͙̳̫̮̓̈́̓̓͜R̶̢̩̯̰͙͉̤̳̯̎̅̿͐͆͛̃͘M̴̪̼̌͌́ͅS̶̝͊͊̾̾́̍ ̶͔̜̞̱̦͉̮̟̓̑͋͒ͅĪ̴̡͉̥̀̾̄͋͑Ņ̴̡̮̳͔̠̺͚̝̎͒̇̈́ ̵̧̓͘M̶͎͇̭͍͉͇̩̻̮̍̋̃͜͝Y̷͚͋͗̓̐̂̍̑̒ ̸̝̅̔̃̎́͛̈́Ś̷̛͈͚͔̯͔̭͕͇̮́̇͗͋͝͠K̶͈̓͐̊̀I̵͓̱̭̥͇̤̭̘̿͋͒͛N̵̢̹̭̠̻̼̯̆̿͂͐͝W̴͉̻̆ͅƠ̸̖͖͖̠̱̎Ȓ̶̡̠͇͓͚̟̤̂̇̋́̋̅̂͐M̵̢̺̥̻͇͊̃̄́S̶͕͕͕̦̓̇͌̒̚̕͝͝͝ ̶̡̺̱̤̆Ĩ̸̤̬̼̭͕̲͖̙͋͊̿̒̿̚͠N̵̢͎̙͎̊̑͠ ̴̜̓̿̇̊͘͠͝Ṁ̷̲͉͙̮̻͙́̌̐̄̂͘Y̵͔̺̺̠̠͈͚̯͓͇̒͐̒̽̎ ̶̪̝͍̤̲̪̥̃̈́̈́̽S̸͈͖͇̾̀̈̊̿ͅĶ̴̲̣̞͈̯̖͔̱̫̈́İ̵̧̯͔͇̣͑̂̌̽̃̌͠͠N̴̡̨͕̲̭̾̿͗͐̓̂̈́̓̒W̸̡̺̹̺̳̄͊̾̔̎̐͒́̚̕ͅO̵̤̟͓̘͙͕̠̓͘͜Ŗ̴͓̻̞͖͇̭̬̏̿̌̓͗̂͘̚M̷̠̱͖͊̍̀̓̂̄̈́͊S̵̢̢͓̠̗̭̤̟͈̀͜ ̶̨̼̦͉͍͊͗͒̂Ị̸̭̜̠̠̠̎̅͒̂͘Ņ̴̱̟̮̳̹̋̈́̒̕ ̸̱̀̐̊̉̓M̴̛̺͉̺̘̳͚̪̈́̐́̕͜͝͝Ý̴͍̜̗̥͆̑̕͝ ̶̡̧͖̰͉̹͇̥̋̌̔͊̍̑S̷̭̥͎͖̹̬̻̩̯͆̋̈́̈́͘K̵̬̘̓͌Ï̷̢̼̱̠̰̬̼͠͝N̶̗̺̻͈̘͔̿̒̇͋̔̎́͜W̴̦͇̺̖̤̜̼̓̇͑̓̂̽̂̄̇ͅO̵̟͉̩̩̝̝̼̩͝R̷̢͓̯͚̤͈̾M̸̨̬̼̟̻̭̳̄̈́͗̉͝S̶̜̘̗̦͈͙̐ ̸̧̠͛̊̓̆̓̉̇͘̕͝ͅI̸͕̠̟̗̔̇̏̈́̂͂͘͠Ṉ̶̨̯̹͍̽͆͒́͆̾̒̌͘͝ͅ ̴̲̾͗̃̅͗̀̋̃M̷̢͇͔̻̭̱̭͎͍͆̄͗͊͒Y̴̡̡̡̪͈̯̖̠̻̐̎̓͊̎̅͠ ̴̻͎̖̂S̶̜̘̠̦͌̂͘K̵̬̒͝Ḯ̶̥̮̮̟́͑̽̽͆̌̓N̸͉̙̠̤̺̔̀̔̕W̷͓̮̣̔̂́͘̕͝O̶̺̯̙̥̻͌͐͊͑̐̎R̵̡̬͗́̀̒̀̊͐͐̚M̷͈͙̃̈́̂̈́̀̌̈́S̷͉̻̞̤̭̦̪̻̭̦͊̊͐͗̐͂̅͊ ̷̢̨͓̱͖̹̝̿͆̂͜ͅǏ̴̛̱̒̉̇̀͋́̾͝N̶̨̞͍͈̪̫̪͎͛̿ͅ ̴̢̢̖̺̲͔̦͗M̵̬͎̯̙̝̿ͅY̸̱̩̼̤̠̺͉̣͙̽̑̽ ̶̫͎͆̈́S̵̢̲̖͓̬̼̩̯͑̇̍͆́͝K̷͔̭͎̘̹̞̙̦͒̿̈́͐̾͘͜I̶͍͚̋̓̓̈́̅̐͑̓̿N̵̙̘̮͉̝̅̓̅̍͜ͅW̷̯̝̠̘͓̲͇͉̞̑̕͜Ơ̸̪̍̏Ŕ̴͕͊̈́̓͝͠M̴̪̯̩̹͎̱͍͒̅͂̽̈͂S̶͇͙̿̓͗̅͘͝ ̵̤̖̩͔̆Ī̵̳̝͍̤̄Ņ̷͎̺̜̝̅̀̆̽͒̈́̄͌͠ ̴̢̳̱͚̣̯͖̊͠M̵̛͎Y̵̧̫͙̆̿͂ ̵̢̻̯͔͙̌̐S̴̡̫̤̾̈́̑͒͗͝K̵̖͕͛Į̴͚͎̝̭̖̯̹͒͑̒̈́͝Ǹ̸͉̱̭̞͇̩͐͆̑̉͆̉̄̚͝W̸̬̺̦̰̼̫̖̩͉̝̒͗͌̈́͌̈́͛̑̊͘O̴̜̐͋̀́̂̌̿̽̈͘R̵̛̳̻̬̬̘͍͍̼̄̒̃͂͜͝M̷̧͓̥̼͍͔̼̤̪̠͆͑̚S̷̭͂̐̄͋̑̌̃̚ ̷̡̮͎̺͇͖̦̝̙̹͑̆̀̔̎Ḯ̴̗̤͒̽͌̐ͅN̷̡̖̰̮̪̞̮͔̞̄͌̑͌͠͝ ̴̡͔̦͂̓̈Ṃ̸͈̲̰̗̯̲̩͋͂Y̵͓̞͖̥͍̮̜͎̭̱̎̍̃̎͠ ̷̧͕͇̱̰͙̣͐̽̆̈́S̷̥̩͇̺̜̈̓̇̋̃́̑̊͜͠K̷̢̖̭͙̩̤͍̲̫͈̅̃̉͒̕͝Ì̸̢̡͙̬̪͎͆́̅N̷̲̺̹̾̆͒̌͑̚Ẅ̷̛͉̖͎̊̂͐́O̶̜̳̯͈͛̽̐͛̊̇́̊̓̕R̷̖̱̼̲̗̄̐̕͜M̴͕̠̥̘͖͎̋͊ͅŚ̵͈͙̝͙̬͖̽ ̸̧̛̛͔̤̾̌͊͛̀̊̈́͑I̶̖̔N̶̮̘̻͇̩̬̮̺̽̔͐̐͂͗͗̈́͊͜ ̵̭̩̙͍̳̭͓̼͈́M̴̛̗͙̣̙̗͙̤̾̂́̓̐̍͝Y̸͈̟͙͇̔̆͊͂̾̄̊̇͘ ̷̹̳͎͉̣̎̄S̷͕̍̍K̵̩̲̗̭̊́͘͘Í̶̯̯̯͑̑̒̈́̕͠N̴̢̞̈́̉͛̑̍̄̌͋͐̚W̷͕͈̅̓̽̇͝O̷̮̺̝̕Ṙ̷̨̨̮̪̭̗͈͚̓̂͂͑̕͠M̴̝̭̈́́͂̚͝Ṡ̴̛̫̪̳͈͂͂͂͛̕͠ ̷̗͎̣̲̆̐̌̿͊̇̆̒I̷̢̛̻̙̗̼͕̫̱͚͜Ṋ̶̡̮̮͕̥͕̮̈̑̒̀͑̀̔ ̴͇͈͒͐̈̉́̓͐̕̚͝M̷̮̺͍͓͍̂̈́̑̏̔͜Ý̸̡̧̜̤̯͉̖̭̒̇́ͅ ̴̢̯̥͍̯̼̻̪̞̂̀̿̈̓͐̄̓S̴̛̭̦̘̰̍̐̅̀͐͗̚͠K̸̤̀̈́I̴̮̱̼̎̾͗̋͘͠Ṉ̷̱̯͋̈́̓͊̉̏̕W̸̧̢͍̩̝͔̬̰̦̰̏̎͆̇Ơ̵̢̞̩̞̳̙̫̹̂̓͜͜Ŗ̵͍̦̥̲̦̮͈͙́̀͗M̷̢̮̘̦̫̳̮̈́̋̽̆͒͛͜S̷̘̤͒̓̈̈́͌ ̶̡̔̂I̸̻̙̬͝ͅN̶̨͎̮̫̘̠̩͆̉̓̚ ̷͙̱̩̝̬͎̒̉̉̇̏͛͋͠M̶͔̩̭̦̹͛Y̸͖͚̬̘͇̭͍̩̅̍̔͌̔̾̾͂̈́̕ ̴̙̬̭̊̍̊̄̂͐͌̚S̵̛̝͎͍͈̭͇̞͋̄͒̒̀͝K̸͉͈̬͚͊͂͋̆̽̾̀͆I̶̺͔̟̲͋͠Ṇ̴̯̭͔̼̐̔̿̀̈́̆͘͘͘͝W̷̨̝̻̽͑̄̓̔̎͌̀̕͝Ṍ̴̡͎R̸̪̱̫̰̼͚̋͠M̶̢̝̬̹͖̠̤͎̭͑͑̊̽̌S̷̮̼̗͔̯͍͔̪̣̍̽̏̒̌͜ ̴̨̛͇̩͒̎̑͆̓̕͠͠Į̵̹̱̘͔̭̦̑̏̓͊̓̚͘͜͜N̶̮̯̈̀͐͑̈́͋ ̵̦̗͉͊̒̒̇͌̉Ḿ̸̬̆̌̂̆̏̍̆Y̶̡̧̮͔̳̳͚̜̑͜ͅ ̵͈͚͓͓̞͌̓S̴̡̨̟̪̪̫̬̙̬̽̿̄̓̀̚K̴̰͉͉̩̓̓̌I̶̜̠̳͓̤̟͆̅̅̑̈́̈́́͌͘͝ͅͅN̷͓͙̊̉̈͘W̵̟̗̠̤͚̱̤̝̱̖̊͛͛͋̈̆̋̚O̵̡̢̮̪͔̫̲͝R̷̨̧͉̺̞͑͆̽͠M̷̗̺̳̙̖͆͋͘̚S̸͚̗̥̖͓͖͚͛̑̑͑̔͊͐̕ ̸̡̭̖͙̾̃́̊̃̋̈́̓̕Ị̵͂̾̊̍̂̾̅͂̅͂Ň̶̖̾̎̋̂̀͆̓͝͝ͅ ̵̮̹̩̗̜͆͋͐̾͂̂̌̚͜M̴̛͎̯͎̲̦̗͈̏͂͒͂̅̋̕̚͝Y̴̧͕̝͚͖͖̳̓̐̀́̅ ̵̛̜̅́́͜S̵̟̟̼̳̮̪͍̭̲̊̇͐̎̚͠K̵̤̲͓͍̇̃̓̈̊̃̚͠͝I̸̛̛͔̾́͌̓̑́̍͗N̶̠̣̰̖̰̹̟̺͆̿͋Ẁ̷͓͇͕̀̊O̶̥̣̦̒̈̋̄̒͊͌͛́R̸̛̯̦̞̺̈́͛̌̈́̏̂̕M̵̮̾̽̋͠S̶̘͕̰̦̠̯̙̦̣͌͂̉̾̂͑͠ ̴̦̪͉̯͕̞͂̍̄̆́͒I̴̪̭̫̙̮̊͐͘͝͝N̵̢̲̬̜̩̗̓͜ ̷̨͇͙͙̣̟̥͙͈̎̍̾̌̀͌́ͅM̸̧̨̙̞͔̩̤̥̗̼͋̓͛̾̉͆͛Ỹ̷̱̞͚̯͋ ̸̫̯̫̈́̉͆̈́S̸͔͙̻̼̫̖͉̰̿͋͑͘K̵̥̹̤͎̳̲̗͇͙͒I̷̥͋͐̆̾N̶̰̙̘͙̤̲͊̄̅̎̑̓̀́W̶̟͎̤̯̬̒̈́ͅŐ̶̡͓̈́̀R̷̡̛̹͉̹̗̟̲̗̙͒̌̓̇̕͘̕͠͝ͅM̵̧̥͉͖̬̤̍̐͆̊͑͆̕͠ͅŞ̷̧̥͇̺̘̗̻̱́̇̾́̍̓͜ ̶̧͇͎̖̥̘̝͉̈̽̾̈́̈́̀̈́̚ͅI̶̘̣̼̮̻̗̼̰͙̯͋̀̎͝N̷̢̳͓̜̥͉͔̼̭͌͗͜ ̸̼͓̘̦͉̰̥́̽̏̄̍͒͠M̴͍̐͛̿Y̸̟̔̾͗̐͊͂̏͊ ̵̘̙͚͔̲͉͋Ś̸̟̭͇̖̼̺̪͍̭K̶̨͙̳̦̥̈́̇̾͠Į̵̗̠̘̀̿̅Ñ̷͍̯̐̈̏̓Ẅ̵̢͈̮̲̈́̉̋͑͝Ó̸̺̞̞͈̪̜̩̝̭̩̍͂͂͑͌̈́̓̅Ŗ̵̘͈͚̥̻͕̻̪̍͂͠M̴̢̝̗̠̹̲̃͋̔͋͘ͅṠ̶̰͈̳̱͖͎̹̘̹̽̋ ̷͕̱̝̑͋̓̎́̎̈́͛͠I̵̺͙̒̈́͛̀N̶̳̭̫̘̪̰̋̈́͂ ̷̢̡̨̧̛͖͉̣͊̔̿͜ͅM̵̹͎̪̘̤͎͋̌͗̋̍Y̸̙͓̣͖̅̏̔̈͑͗̉͜ ̶̡̻̗̭͓̺̏͛͆̓̎͛͠͝S̵̨̞̩͙͈̐̈́̃͛͘͜ͅK̶̨̮̖̯͕̗͖̖̮͋͒̈́̅̄͗̿́̋I̵̬̻̼͆͑͑͒͌̓̑́͛̏N̷̨̬͕̯̤̹̻̻͌̄̑͌̇̐̀͘ͅW̵̧̨̬͇̳̲̫̯̤͍̆͆͗́͒͠O̷͔͍̭͇͙̝̍̉̈́͛̆̌͠R̵͕͈͑̈́M̴̮̺̜͚̤͎̓̇̿Ş̶̩͔̑͒ ̶̡̥͕͇̬̪̑I̷̛̫̓͒̿̆͑N̶̨̖͖̠̺͕̆̌̉̑͛͑̏́̐ ̴̨͕̬̄̌̈́̔̉̔M̴̨̨͓̠̦̳͉̞̖͛͗̊́̈́̄̑̐̚̚Ÿ̸̡̢̯͓͔̥́̍̐̑̓͆͌̑̕̚ ̴̡̮̹̔̎̏͑̐̽̓͠Ś̴̛̲̦̖̂̿́K̵͇̭͖̹͎̏͛͊͊͆̆̈́̿̈́͠ͅI̴̳̳͇͔̖͍̘͔͕͂̓̆͛̕̕Ņ̸̛̭̥͇̤͔̥͊͂͜͜Ẉ̵̨̯̞͎̖͍̩̃̐̿̍̈́́͗͆͜O̵̩̺͙̳̫̮̓̈́̓̓͜R̶̢̩̯̰͙͉̤̳̯̎̅̿͐͆͛̃͘M̴̪̼̌͌́ͅS̶̝͊͊̾̾́̍ ̶͔̜̞̱̦͉̮̟̓̑͋͒ͅĪ̴̡͉̥̀̾̄͋͑Ņ̴̡̮̳͔̠̺͚̝̎͒̇̈́ ̵̧̓͘M̶͎͇̭͍͉͇̩̻̮̍̋̃͜͝Y̷͚͋͗̓̐̂̍̑̒ ̸̝̅̔̃̎́͛̈́Ś̷̛͈͚͔̯͔̭͕͇̮́̇͗͋͝͠K̶͈̓͐̊̀I̵͓̱̭̥͇̤̭̘̿͋͒͛N̵̢̹̭̠̻̼̯̆̿͂͐͝W̴͉̻̆ͅƠ̸̖͖͖̠̱̎Ȓ̶̡̠͇͓͚̟̤̂̇̋́̋̅̂͐M̵̢̺̥̻͇͊̃̄́S̶͕͕͕̦̓̇͌̒̚̕͝͝͝ ̶̡̺̱̤̆Ĩ̸̤̬̼̭͕̲͖̙͋͊̿̒̿̚͠N̵̢͎̙͎̊̑͠ ̴̜̓̿̇̊͘͠͝Ṁ̷̲͉͙̮̻͙́̌̐̄̂͘Y̵͔̺̺̠̠͈͚̯͓͇̒͐̒̽̎ ̶̪̝͍̤̲̪̥̃̈́̈́̽S̸͈͖͇̾̀̈̊̿ͅĶ̴̲̣̞͈̯̖͔̱̫̈́İ̵̧̯͔͇̣͑̂̌̽̃̌͠͠N̴̡̨͕̲̭̾̿͗͐̓̂̈́̓̒W̸̡̺̹̺̳̄͊̾̔̎̐͒́̚̕ͅO̵̤̟͓̘͙͕̠̓͘͜Ŗ̴͓̻̞͖͇̭̬̏̿̌̓͗̂͘̚M̷̠̱͖͊̍̀̓̂̄̈́͊S̵̢̢͓̠̗̭̤̟͈̀͜ ̶̨̼̦͉͍͊͗͒̂Ị̸̭̜̠̠̠̎̅͒̂͘Ņ̴̱̟̮̳̹̋̈́̒̕ ̸̱̀̐̊̉̓M̴̛̺͉̺̘̳͚̪̈́̐́̕͜͝͝Ý̴͍̜̗̥͆̑̕͝ ̶̡̧͖̰͉̹͇̥̋̌̔͊̍̑S̷̭̥͎͖̹̬̻̩̯͆̋̈́̈́͘K̵̬̘̓͌Ï̷̢̼̱̠̰̬̼͠͝N̶̗̺̻͈̘͔̿̒̇͋̔̎́͜W̴̦͇̺̖̤̜̼̓̇͑̓̂̽̂̄̇ͅO̵̟͉̩̩̝̝̼̩͝R̷̢͓̯͚̤͈̾M̸̨̬̼̟̻̭̳̄̈́͗̉͝S̶̜̘̗̦͈͙̐ ̸̧̠͛̊̓̆̓̉̇͘̕͝ͅI̸͕̠̟̗̔̇̏̈́̂͂͘͠Ṉ̶̨̯̹͍̽͆͒́͆̾̒̌͘͝ͅ ̴̲̾͗̃̅͗̀̋̃M̷̢͇͔̻̭̱̭͎͍͆̄͗͊͒Y̴̡̡̡̪͈̯̖̠̻̐̎̓͊̎̅͠ ̴̻͎̖̂S̶̜̘̠̦͌̂͘K̵̬̒͝Ḯ̶̥̮̮̟́͑̽̽͆̌̓N̸͉̙̠̤̺̔̀̔̕W̷͓̮̣̔̂́͘̕͝O̶̺̯̙̥̻͌͐͊͑̐̎R̵̡̬͗́̀̒̀̊͐͐̚M̷͈͙̃̈́̂̈́̀̌̈́S̷͉̻̞̤̭̦̪̻̭̦͊̊͐͗̐͂̅͊ ̷̢̨͓̱͖̹̝̿͆̂͜ͅǏ̴̛̱̒̉̇̀͋́̾͝N̶̨̞͍͈̪̫̪͎͛̿ͅ ̴̢̢̖̺̲͔̦͗M̵̬͎̯̙̝̿ͅY̸̱̩̼̤̠̺͉̣͙̽̑̽ ̶̫͎͆̈́S̵̢̲̖͓̬̼̩̯͑̇̍͆́͝K̷͔̭͎̘̹̞̙̦͒̿̈́͐̾͘͜I̶͍͚̋̓̓̈́̅̐͑̓̿N̵̙̘̮͉̝̅̓̅̍͜ͅW̷̯̝̠̘͓̲͇͉̞̑̕͜Ơ̸̪̍̏Ŕ̴͕͊̈́̓͝͠M̴̪̯̩̹͎̱͍͒̅͂̽̈͂S̶͇͙̿̓͗̅͘͝ ̵̤̖̩͔̆Ī̵̳̝͍̤̄Ņ̷͎̺̜̝̅̀̆̽͒̈́̄͌͠ ̴̢̳̱͚̣̯͖̊͠M̵̛͎Y̵̧̫͙̆̿͂ ̵̢̻̯͔͙̌̐S̴̡̫̤̾̈́̑͒͗͝K̵̖͕͛Į̴͚͎̝̭̖̯̹͒͑̒̈́͝Ǹ̸͉̱̭̞͇̩͐͆̑̉͆̉̄̚͝W̸̬̺̦̰̼̫̖̩͉̝̒͗͌̈́͌̈́͛̑̊͘O̴̜̐͋̀́̂̌̿̽̈͘R̵̛̳̻̬̬̘͍͍̼̄̒̃͂͜͝M̷̧͓̥̼͍͔̼̤̪̠͆͑̚S̷̭͂̐̄͋̑̌̃̚ ̷̡̮͎̺͇͖̦̝̙̹͑̆̀̔̎Ḯ̴̗̤͒̽͌̐ͅN̷̡̖̰̮̪̞̮͔̞̄͌̑͌͠͝ ̴̡͔̦͂̓̈Ṃ̸͈̲̰̗̯̲̩͋͂Y̵͓̞͖̥͍̮̜͎̭̱̎̍̃̎͠ ̷̧͕͇̱̰͙̣͐̽̆̈́S̷̥̩͇̺̜̈̓̇̋̃́̑̊͜͠K̷̢̖̭͙̩̤͍̲̫͈̅̃̉͒̕͝Ì̸̢̡͙̬̪͎͆́̅N̷̲̺̹̾̆͒̌͑̚Ẅ̷̛͉̖͎̊̂͐́O̶̜̳̯͈͛̽̐͛̊̇́̊̓̕R̷̖̱̼̲̗̄̐̕͜M̴͕̠̥̘͖͎̋͊ͅŚ̵͈͙̝͙̬͖̽ ̸̧̛̛͔̤̾̌͊͛̀̊̈́͑I̶̖̔N̶̮̘̻͇̩̬̮̺̽̔͐̐͂͗͗̈́͊͜ ̵̭̩̙͍̳̭͓̼͈́M̴̛̗͙̣̙̗͙̤̾̂́̓̐̍͝Y̸͈̟͙͇̔̆͊͂̾̄̊̇͘ ̷̹̳͎͉̣̎̄S̷͕̍̍K̵̩̲̗̭̊́͘͘Í̶̯̯̯͑̑̒̈́̕͠N̴̢̞̈́̉͛̑̍̄̌͋͐̚W̷͕͈̅̓̽̇͝O̷̮̺̝̕Ṙ̷̨̨̮̪̭̗͈͚̓̂͂͑̕͠M̴̝̭̈́́͂̚͝Ṡ̴̛̫̪̳͈͂͂͂͛̕͠ ̷̗͎̣̲̆̐̌̿͊̇̆̒I̷̢̛̻̙̗̼͕̫̱͚͜Ṋ̶̡̮̮͕̥͕̮̈̑̒̀͑̀̔ ̴͇͈͒͐̈̉́̓͐̕̚͝M̷̮̺͍͓͍̂̈́̑̏̔͜Ý̸̡̧̜̤̯͉̖̭̒̇́ͅ ̴̢̯̥͍̯̼̻̪̞̂̀̿̈̓͐̄̓S̴̛̭̦̘̰̍̐̅̀͐͗̚͠K̸̤̀̈́I̴̮̱̼̎̾͗̋͘͠Ṉ̷̱̯͋̈́̓͊̉̏̕W̸̧̢͍̩̝͔̬̰̦̰̏̎͆̇Ơ̵̢̞̩̞̳̙̫̹̂̓͜͜Ŗ̵͍̦̥̲̦̮͈͙́̀͗M̷̢̮̘̦̫̳̮̈́̋̽̆͒͛͜S̷̘̤͒̓̈̈́͌ ̶̡̔̂I̸̻̙̬͝ͅN̶̨͎̮̫̘̠̩͆̉̓̚ ̷͙̱̩̝̬͎̒̉̉̇̏͛͋͠M̶͔̩̭̦̹͛Y̸͖͚̬̘͇̭͍̩̅̍̔͌̔̾̾͂̈́̕ ̴̙̬̭̊̍̊̄̂͐͌̚S̵̛̝͎͍͈̭͇̞͋̄͒̒̀͝K̸͉͈̬͚͊͂͋̆̽̾̀͆I̶̺͔̟̲͋͠Ṇ̴̯̭͔̼̐̔̿̀̈́̆͘͘͘͝W̷̨̝̻̽͑̄̓̔̎͌̀̕͝Ṍ̴̡͎R̸̪̱̫̰̼͚̋͠M̶̢̝̬̹͖̠̤͎̭͑͑̊̽̌S̷̮̼̗͔̯͍͔̪̣̍̽̏̒̌͜ ̴̨̛͇̩͒̎̑͆̓̕͠͠Į̵̹̱̘͔̭̦̑̏̓͊̓̚͘͜͜N̶̮̯̈̀͐͑̈́͋ ̵̦̗͉͊̒̒̇͌̉Ḿ̸̬̆̌̂̆̏̍̆Y̶̡̧̮͔̳̳͚̜̑͜ͅ ̵͈͚͓͓̞͌̓S̴̡̨̟̪̪̫̬̙̬̽̿̄̓̀̚K̴̰͉͉̩̓̓̌I̶̜̠̳͓̤̟͆̅̅̑̈́̈́́͌͘͝ͅͅN̷͓͙̊̉̈͘W̵̟̗̠̤͚̱̤̝̱̖̊͛͛͋̈̆̋̚O̵̡̢̮̪͔̫̲͝R̷̨̧͉̺̞͑͆̽͠M̷̗̺̳̙̖͆͋͘̚S̸͚̗̥̖͓͖͚͛̑̑͑̔͊͐̕ ̸̡̭̖͙̾̃́̊̃̋̈́̓̕Ị̵͂̾̊̍̂̾̅͂̅͂Ň̶̖̾̎̋̂̀͆̓͝͝ͅ ̵̮̹̩̗̜͆͋͐̾͂̂̌̚͜M̴̛͎̯͎̲̦̗͈̏͂͒͂̅̋̕̚͝Y̴̧͕̝͚͖͖̳̓̐̀́̅ ̵̛̜̅́́͜S̵̟̟̼̳̮̪͍̭̲̊̇͐̎̚͠K̵̤̲͓͍̇̃̓̈̊̃̚͠͝I̸̛̛͔̾́͌̓̑́̍͗N̶̠̣̰̖̰̹̟̺͆̿͋Ẁ̷͓͇͕̀̊O̶̥̣̦̒̈̋̄̒͊͌͛́R̸̛̯̦̞̺̈́͛̌̈́̏̂̕M̵̮̾̽̋͠S̶̘͕̰̦̠̯̙̦̣͌͂̉̾̂͑͠ ̴̦̪͉̯͕̞͂̍̄̆́͒I̴̪̭̫̙̮̊͐͘͝͝N̵̢̲̬̜̩̗̓͜ ̷̨͇͙͙̣̟̥͙͈̎̍̾̌̀͌́ͅM̸̧̨̙̞͔̩̤̥̗̼͋̓͛̾̉͆͛Ỹ̷̱̞͚̯͋ ̸̫̯̫̈́̉͆̈́S̸͔͙̻̼̫̖͉̰̿͋͑͘K̵̥̹̤͎̳̲̗͇͙͒I̷̥͋͐̆̾N̶̰̙̘͙̤̲͊̄̅̎̑̓̀́Ẁ̷͓͇͕̀̊O̶̥̣̦̒̈̋̄̒͊͌͛́R̸̛̯̦̞̺̈́͛̌̈́̏̂̕M̵̮̾̽̋͠S̶̘͕̰̦̠̯̙̦̣͌͂̉̾̂͑͠ ̴̦̪͉̯͕̞͂̍̄̆́͒I̴̪̭̫̙̮̊͐͘͝͝N̵̢̲̬̜̩̗̓͜ ̷̨͇͙͙̣̟̥͙͈̎̍̾̌̀͌́ͅM̸̧̨̙̞͔̩̤̥̗̼͋̓͛̾̉͆͛Ỹ̷̱̞͚̯͋ ̸̫̯̫̈́̉͆̈́S̸͔͙̻̼̫̖͉̰̿͋͑͘K̵̥̹̤͎̳̲̗͇͙͒I̷̥͋͐̆̾N̶̰̙̘͙̤̲͊̄̅̎̑̓̀́W̶̟͎̤̯̬̒̈́ͅŐ̶̡͓̈́̀R̷̡̛̹͉̹̗̟̲̗̙͒̌̓̇̕͘̕͠͝ͅM̵̧̥͉͖̬̤̍̐͆̊͑͆̕͠ͅŞ̷̧̥͇̺̘̗̻̱́̇̾́̍̓͜ ̶̧͇͎̖̥̘̝͉̈̽̾̈́̈́̀̈́̚ͅI̶̘̣̼̮̻̗̼̰͙̯͋̀̎͝N̷̢̳͓̜̥͉͔̼̭͌͗͜ ̸̼͓̘̦͉̰̥́̽̏̄̍͒͠M̴͍̐͛̿Y̸̟̔̾͗̐͊͂̏͊ ̵̘̙͚͔̲͉͋Ś̸̟̭͇̖̼̺̪͍̭K̶̨͙̳̦̥̈́̇̾͠Į̵̗̠̘̀̿̅Ñ̷͍̯̐̈̏̓Ẅ̵̢͈̮̲̈́̉̋͑͝Ó̸̺̞̞͈̪̜̩̝̭̩̍͂͂͑͌̈́̓̅Ŗ̵̘͈͚̥̻͕̻̪̍͂͠M̴̢̝̗̠̹̲̃͋̔͋͘ͅṠ̶̰͈̳̱͖͎̹̘̹̽̋ ̷͕̱̝̑͋̓̎́̎̈́͛͠I̵̺͙̒̈́͛̀N̶̳̭̫̘̪̰̋̈́͂ ̷̢̡̨̧̛͖͉̣͊̔̿͜ͅM̵̹͎̪̘̤͎͋̌͗̋̍Y̸̙͓̣͖̅̏̔̈͑͗̉͜ ̶̡̻̗̭͓̺̏͛͆̓̎͛͠͝S̵̨̞̩͙͈̐̈́̃͛͘͜ͅK̶̨̮̖̯͕̗͖̖̮͋͒̈́̅̄͗̿́̋I̵̬̻̼͆͑͑͒͌̓̑́͛̏N̷̨̬͕̯̤̹̻̻͌̄̑͌̇̐̀͘ͅW̵̧̨̬͇̳̲̫̯̤͍̆͆͗́͒͠O̷͔͍̭͇͙̝̍̉̈́͛̆̌͠R̵͕͈͑̈́M̴̮̺̜͚̤͎̓̇̿Ş̶̩͔̑͒ ̶̡̥͕͇̬̪̑I̷̛̫̓͒̿̆͑N̶̨̖͖̠̺͕̆̌̉̑͛͑̏́̐ ̴̨͕̬̄̌̈́̔̉̔M̴̨̨͓̠̦̳͉̞̖͛͗̊́̈́̄̑̐̚̚Ÿ̸̡̢̯͓͔̥́̍̐̑̓͆͌̑̕̚ ̴̡̮̹̔̎̏͑̐̽̓͠Ś̴̛̲̦̖̂̿́K̵͇̭͖̹͎̏͛͊͊͆̆̈́̿̈́͠ͅI̴̳̳͇͔̖͍̘͔͕͂̓̆͛̕̕Ņ̸̛̭̥͇̤͔̥͊͂͜͜Ẉ̵̨̯̞͎̖͍̩̃̐̿̍̈́́͗͆͜O̵̩̺͙̳̫̮̓̈́̓̓͜R̶̢̩̯̰͙͉̤̳̯̎̅̿͐͆͛̃͘M̴̪̼̌͌́ͅS̶̝͊͊̾̾́̍ ̶͔̜̞̱̦͉̮̟̓̑͋͒ͅĪ̴̡͉̥̀̾̄͋͑Ņ̴̡̮̳͔̠̺͚̝̎͒̇̈́ ̵̧̓͘M̶͎͇̭͍͉͇̩̻̮̍̋̃͜͝Y̷͚͋͗̓̐̂̍̑̒ ̸̝̅̔̃̎́͛̈́Ś̷̛͈͚͔̯͔̭͕͇̮́̇͗͋͝͠K̶͈̓͐̊̀I̵͓̱̭̥͇̤̭̘̿͋͒͛N̵̢̹̭̠̻̼̯̆̿͂͐͝W̴͉̻̆ͅƠ̸̖͖͖̠̱̎Ȓ̶̡̠͇͓͚̟̤̂̇̋́̋̅̂͐M̵̢̺̥̻͇͊̃̄́S̶͕͕͕̦̓̇͌̒̚̕͝͝͝ ̶̡̺̱̤̆Ĩ̸̤̬̼̭͕̲͖̙͋͊̿̒̿̚͠N̵̢͎̙͎̊̑͠ ̴̜̓̿̇̊͘͠͝Ṁ̷̲͉͙̮̻͙́̌̐̄̂͘Y̵͔̺̺̠̠͈͚̯͓͇̒͐̒̽̎ ̶̪̝͍̤̲̪̥̃̈́̈́̽S̸͈͖͇̾̀̈̊̿ͅĶ̴̲̣̞͈̯̖͔̱̫̈́İ̵̧̯͔͇̣͑̂̌̽̃̌͠͠N̴̡̨͕̲̭̾̿͗͐̓̂̈́̓̒W̸̡̺̹̺̳̄͊̾̔̎̐͒́̚̕ͅO̵̤̟͓̘͙͕̠̓͘͜Ŗ̴͓̻̞͖͇̭̬̏̿̌̓͗̂͘̚M̷̠̱͖͊̍̀̓̂̄̈́͊S̵̢̢͓̠̗̭̤̟͈̀͜ ̶̨̼̦͉͍͊͗͒̂Ị̸̭̜̠̠̠̎̅͒̂͘Ņ̴̱̟̮̳̹̋̈́̒̕ ̸̱̀̐̊̉̓M̴̛̺͉̺̘̳͚̪̈́̐́̕͜͝͝Ý̴͍̜̗̥͆̑̕͝ ̶̡̧͖̰͉̹͇̥̋̌̔͊̍̑S̷̭̥͎͖̹̬̻̩̯͆̋̈́̈́͘K̵̬̘̓͌Ï̷̢̼̱̠̰̬̼͠͝N̶̗̺̻͈̘͔̿̒̇͋̔̎́͜W̴̦͇̺̖̤̜̼̓̇͑̓̂̽̂̄̇ͅO̵̟͉̩̩̝̝̼̩͝R̷̢͓̯͚̤͈̾M̸̨̬̼̟̻̭̳̄̈́͗̉͝S̶̜̘̗̦͈͙̐ ̸̧̠͛̊̓̆̓̉̇͘̕͝ͅI̸͕̠̟̗̔̇̏̈́̂͂͘͠Ṉ̶̨̯̹͍̽͆͒́͆̾̒̌͘͝ͅ ̴̲̾͗̃̅͗̀̋̃M̷̢͇͔̻̭̱̭͎͍͆̄͗͊͒Y̴̡̡̡̪͈̯̖̠̻̐̎̓͊̎̅͠ ̴̻͎̖̂S̶̜̘̠̦͌̂͘K̵̬̒͝Ḯ̶̥̮̮̟́͑̽̽͆̌̓N̸͉̙̠̤̺̔̀̔̕W̷͓̮̣̔̂́͘̕͝O̶̺̯̙̥̻͌͐͊͑̐̎R̵̡̬͗́̀̒̀̊͐͐̚M̷͈͙̃̈́̂̈́̀̌̈́S̷͉̻̞̤̭̦̪̻̭̦͊̊͐͗̐͂̅͊ ̷̢̨͓̱͖̹̝̿͆̂͜ͅǏ̴̛̱̒̉̇̀͋́̾͝N̶̨̞͍͈̪̫̪͎͛̿ͅ ̴̢̢̖̺̲͔̦͗M̵̬͎̯̙̝̿ͅY̸̱̩̼̤̠̺͉̣͙̽̑̽ ̶̫͎͆̈́S̵̢̲̖͓̬̼̩̯͑̇̍͆́͝K̷͔̭͎̘̹̞̙̦͒̿̈́͐̾͘͜I̶͍͚̋̓̓̈́̅̐͑̓̿N̵̙̘̮͉̝̅̓̅̍͜ͅW̷̯̝̠̘͓̲͇͉̞̑̕͜Ơ̸̪̍̏Ŕ̴͕͊̈́̓͝͠M̴̪̯̩̹͎̱͍͒̅͂̽̈͂S̶͇͙̿̓͗̅͘͝ ̵̤̖̩͔̆Ī̵̳̝͍̤̄Ņ̷͎̺̜̝̅̀̆̽͒̈́̄͌͠ ̴̢̳̱͚̣̯͖̊͠M̵̛͎Y̵̧̫͙̆̿͂ ̵̢̻̯͔͙̌̐S̴̡̫̤̾̈́̑͒͗͝K̵̖͕͛Į̴͚͎̝̭̖̯̹͒͑̒̈́͝Ǹ̸͉̱̭̞͇̩͐͆̑̉͆̉̄̚͝W̸̬̺̦̰̼̫̖̩͉̝̒͗͌̈́͌̈́͛̑̊͘O̴̜̐͋̀́̂̌̿̽̈͘R̵̛̳̻̬̬̘͍͍̼̄̒̃͂͜͝M̷̧͓̥̼͍͔̼̤̪̠͆͑̚S̷̭͂̐̄͋̑̌̃̚ ̷̡̮͎̺͇͖̦̝̙̹͑̆̀̔̎Ḯ̴̗̤͒̽͌̐ͅN̷̡̖̰̮̪̞̮͔̞̄͌̑͌͠͝ ̴̡͔̦͂̓̈Ṃ̸͈̲̰̗̯̲̩͋͂Y̵͓̞͖̥͍̮̜͎̭̱̎̍̃̎͠ ̷̧͕͇̱̰͙̣͐̽̆̈́S̷̥̩͇̺̜̈̓̇̋̃́̑̊͜͠K̷̢̖̭͙̩̤͍̲̫͈̅̃̉͒̕͝Ì̸̢̡͙̬̪͎͆́̅N̷̲̺̹̾̆͒̌͑̚Ẅ̷̛͉̖͎̊̂͐́O̶̜̳̯͈͛̽̐͛̊̇́̊̓̕R̷̖̱̼̲̗̄̐̕͜M̴͕̠̥̘͖͎̋͊ͅŚ̵͈͙̝͙̬͖̽ ̸̧̛̛͔̤̾̌͊͛̀̊̈́͑I̶̖̔N̶̮̘̻͇̩̬̮̺̽̔͐̐͂͗͗̈́͊͜ ̵̭̩̙͍̳̭͓̼͈́M̴̛̗͙̣̙̗͙̤̾̂́̓̐̍͝Y̸͈̟͙͇̔̆͊͂̾̄̊̇͘ ̷̹̳͎͉̣̎̄S̷͕̍̍K̵̩̲̗̭̊́͘͘Í̶̯̯̯͑̑̒̈́̕͠N̴̢̞̈́̉͛̑̍̄̌͋͐̚W̷͕͈̅̓̽̇͝O̷̮̺̝̕Ṙ̷̨̨̮̪̭̗͈͚̓̂͂͑̕͠M̴̝̭̈́́͂̚͝Ṡ̴̛̫̪̳͈͂͂͂͛̕͠ ̷̗͎̣̲̆̐̌̿͊̇̆̒I̷̢̛̻̙̗̼͕̫̱͚͜Ṋ̶̡̮̮͕̥͕̮̈̑̒̀͑̀̔ ̴͇͈͒͐̈̉́̓͐̕̚͝M̷̮̺͍͓͍̂̈́̑̏̔͜Ý̸̡̧̜̤̯͉̖̭̒̇́ͅ ̴̢̯̥͍̯̼̻̪̞̂̀̿̈̓͐̄̓S̴̛̭̦̘̰̍̐̅̀͐͗̚͠K̸̤̀̈́I̴̮̱̼̎̾͗̋͘͠Ṉ̷̱̯͋̈́̓͊̉̏̕W̸̧̢͍̩̝͔̬̰̦̰̏̎͆̇Ơ̵̢̞̩̞̳̙̫̹̂̓͜͜Ŗ̵͍̦̥̲̦̮͈͙́̀͗M̷̢̮̘̦̫̳̮̈́̋̽̆͒͛͜S̷̘̤͒̓̈̈́͌ ̶̡̔̂I̸̻̙̬͝ͅN̶̨͎̮̫̘̠̩͆̉̓̚ ̷͙̱̩̝̬͎̒̉̉̇̏͛͋͠M̶͔̩̭̦̹͛Y̸͖͚̬̘͇̭͍̩̅̍̔͌̔̾̾͂̈́̕ ̴̙̬̭̊̍̊̄̂͐͌̚S̵̛̝͎͍͈̭͇̞͋̄͒̒̀͝K̸͉͈̬͚͊͂͋̆̽̾̀͆I̶̺͔̟̲͋͠Ṇ̴̯̭͔̼̐̔̿̀̈́̆͘͘͘͝W̷̨̝̻̽͑̄̓̔̎͌̀̕͝Ṍ̴̡͎R̸̪̱̫̰̼͚̋͠M̶̢̝̬̹͖̠̤͎̭͑͑̊̽̌S̷̮̼̗͔̯͍͔̪̣̍̽̏̒̌͜ ̴̨̛͇̩͒̎̑͆̓̕͠͠Į̵̹̱̘͔̭̦̑̏̓͊̓̚͘͜͜N̶̮̯̈̀͐͑̈́͋ ̵̦̗͉͊̒̒̇͌̉Ḿ̸̬̆̌̂̆̏̍̆Y̶̡̧̮͔̳̳͚̜̑͜ͅ ̵͈͚͓͓̞͌̓S̴̡̨̟̪̪̫̬̙̬̽̿̄̓̀̚K̴̰͉͉̩̓̓̌I̶̜̠̳͓̤̟͆̅̅̑̈́̈́́͌͘͝ͅͅN̷͓͙̊̉̈͘W̵̟̗̠̤͚̱̤̝̱̖̊͛͛͋̈̆̋̚O̵̡̢̮̪͔̫̲͝R̷̨̧͉̺̞͑͆̽͠M̷̗̺̳̙̖͆͋͘̚S̸͚̗̥̖͓͖͚͛̑̑͑̔͊͐̕ ̸̡̭̖͙̾̃́̊̃̋̈́̓̕Ị̵͂̾̊̍̂̾̅͂̅͂Ň̶̖̾̎̋̂̀͆̓͝͝ͅ ̵̮̹̩̗̜͆͋͐̾͂̂̌̚͜M̴̛͎̯͎̲̦̗͈̏͂͒͂̅̋̕̚͝Y̴̧͕̝͚͖͖̳̓̐̀́̅ ̵̛̜̅́́͜S̵̟̟̼̳̮̪͍̭̲̊̇͐̎̚͠K̵̤̲͓͍̇̃̓̈̊̃̚͠͝I̸̛̛͔̾́͌̓̑́̍͗N̶̠̣̰̖̰̹̟̺͆̿͋Ẁ̷͓͇͕̀̊O̶̥̣̦̒̈̋̄̒͊͌͛́R̸̛̯̦̞̺̈́͛̌̈́̏̂̕M̵̮̾̽̋͠S̶̘͕̰̦̠̯̙̦̣͌͂̉̾̂͑͠ ̴̦̪͉̯͕̞͂̍̄̆́͒I̴̪̭̫̙̮̊͐͘͝͝N̵̢̲̬̜̩̗̓͜ ̷̨͇͙͙̣̟̥͙͈̎̍̾̌̀͌́ͅM̸̧̨̙̞͔̩̤̥̗̼͋̓͛̾̉͆͛Ỹ̷̱̞͚̯͋ ̸̫̯̫̈́̉͆̈́S̸͔͙̻̼̫̖͉̰̿͋͑͘K̵̥̹̤͎̳̲̗͇͙͒I̷̥͋͐̆̾N̶̰̙̘͙̤̲͊̄̅̎̑̓̀́W̶̟͎̤̯̬̒̈́ͅŐ̶̡͓̈́̀R̷̡̛̹͉̹̗̟̲̗̙͒̌̓̇̕͘̕͠͝ͅM̵̧̥͉͖̬̤̍̐͆̊͑͆̕͠ͅŞ̷̧̥͇̺̘̗̻̱́̇̾́̍̓͜ ̶̧͇͎̖̥̘̝͉̈̽̾̈́̈́̀̈́̚ͅI̶̘̣̼̮̻̗̼̰͙̯͋̀̎͝N̷̢̳͓̜̥͉͔̼̭͌͗͜ ̸̼͓̘̦͉̰̥́̽̏̄̍͒͠M̴͍̐͛̿Y̸̟̔̾͗̐͊͂̏͊ ̵̘̙͚͔̲͉͋Ś̸̟̭͇̖̼̺̪͍̭K̶̨͙̳̦̥̈́̇̾͠Į̵̗̠̘̀̿̅Ñ̷͍̯̐̈̏̓Ẅ̵̢͈̮̲̈́̉̋͑͝Ó̸̺̞̞͈̪̜̩̝̭̩̍͂͂͑͌̈́̓̅Ŗ̵̘͈͚̥̻͕̻̪̍͂͠M̴̢̝̗̠̹̲̃͋̔͋͘ͅṠ̶̰͈̳̱͖͎̹̘̹̽̋ ̷͕̱̝̑͋̓̎́̎̈́͛͠I̵̺͙̒̈́͛̀N̶̳̭̫̘̪̰̋̈́͂ ̷̢̡̨̧̛͖͉̣͊̔̿͜ͅM̵̹͎̪̘̤͎͋̌͗̋̍Y̸̙͓̣͖̅̏̔̈͑͗̉͜ ̶̡̻̗̭͓̺̏͛͆̓̎͛͠͝S̵̨̞̩͙͈̐̈́̃͛͘͜ͅK̶̨̮̖̯͕̗͖̖̮͋͒̈́̅̄͗̿́̋I̵̬̻̼͆͑͑͒͌̓̑́͛̏N̷̨̬͕̯̤̹̻̻͌̄̑͌̇̐̀͘ͅW̵̧̨̬͇̳̲̫̯̤͍̆͆͗́͒͠O̷͔͍̭͇͙̝̍̉̈́͛̆̌͠R̵͕͈͑̈́M̴̮̺̜͚̤͎̓̇̿Ş̶̩͔̑͒ ̶̡̥͕͇̬̪̑I̷̛̫̓͒̿̆͑N̶̨̖͖̠̺͕̆̌̉̑͛͑̏́̐ ̴̨͕̬̄̌̈́̔̉̔M̴̨̨͓̠̦̳͉̞̖͛͗̊́̈́̄̑̐̚̚Ÿ̸̡̢̯͓͔̥́̍̐̑̓͆͌̑̕̚ ̴̡̮̹̔̎̏͑̐̽̓͠Ś̴̛̲̦̖̂̿́K̵͇̭͖̹͎̏͛͊͊͆̆̈́̿̈́͠ͅI̴̳̳͇͔̖͍̘͔͕͂̓̆͛̕̕Ņ̸̛̭̥͇̤͔̥͊͂͜͜Ẉ̵̨̯̞͎̖͍̩̃̐̿̍̈́́͗͆͜O̵̩̺͙̳̫̮̓̈́̓̓͜R̶̢̩̯̰͙͉̤̳̯̎̅̿͐͆͛̃͘M̴̪̼̌͌́ͅS̶̝͊͊̾̾́̍ ̶͔̜̞̱̦͉̮̟̓̑͋͒ͅĪ̴̡͉̥̀̾̄͋͑Ņ̴̡̮̳͔̠̺͚̝̎͒̇̈́ ̵̧̓͘M̶͎͇̭͍͉͇̩̻̮̍̋̃͜͝Y̷͚͋͗̓̐̂̍̑̒ ̸̝̅̔̃̎́͛̈́Ś̷̛͈͚͔̯͔̭͕͇̮́̇͗͋͝͠K̶͈̓͐̊̀I̵͓̱̭̥͇̤̭̘̿͋͒͛N̵̢̹̭̠̻̼̯̆̿͂͐͝W̴͉̻̆ͅƠ̸̖͖͖̠̱̎Ȓ̶̡̠͇͓͚̟̤̂̇̋́̋̅̂͐M̵̢̺̥̻͇͊̃̄́S̶͕͕͕̦̓̇͌̒̚̕͝͝͝ ̶̡̺̱̤̆Ĩ̸̤̬̼̭͕̲͖̙͋͊̿̒̿̚͠N̵̢͎̙͎̊̑͠ ̴̜̓̿̇̊͘͠͝Ṁ̷̲͉͙̮̻͙́̌̐̄̂͘Y̵͔̺̺̠̠͈͚̯͓͇̒͐̒̽̎ ̶̪̝͍̤̲̪̥̃̈́̈́̽S̸͈͖͇̾̀̈̊̿ͅĶ̴̲̣̞͈̯̖͔̱̫̈́İ̵̧̯͔͇̣͑̂̌̽̃̌͠͠N̴̡̨͕̲̭̾̿͗͐̓̂̈́̓̒W̸̡̺̹̺̳̄͊̾̔̎̐͒́̚̕ͅO̵̤̟͓̘͙͕̠̓͘͜Ŗ̴͓̻̞͖͇̭̬̏̿̌̓͗̂͘̚M̷̠̱͖͊̍̀̓̂̄̈́͊S̵̢̢͓̠̗̭̤̟͈̀͜ ̶̨̼̦͉͍͊͗͒̂Ị̸̭̜̠̠̠̎̅͒̂͘Ņ̴̱̟̮̳̹̋̈́̒̕ ̸̱̀̐̊̉̓M̴̛̺͉̺̘̳͚̪̈́̐́̕͜͝͝Ý̴͍̜̗̥͆̑̕͝ ̶̡̧͖̰͉̹͇̥̋̌̔͊̍̑S̷̭̥͎͖̹̬̻̩̯͆̋̈́̈́͘K̵̬̘̓͌Ï̷̢̼̱̠̰̬̼͠͝N̶̗̺̻͈̘͔̿̒̇͋̔̎́͜W̴̦͇̺̖̤̜̼̓̇͑̓̂̽̂̄̇ͅO̵̟͉̩̩̝̝̼̩͝R̷̢͓̯͚̤͈̾M̸̨̬̼̟̻̭̳̄̈́͗̉͝S̶̜̘̗̦͈͙̐ ̸̧̠͛̊̓̆̓̉̇͘̕͝ͅI̸͕̠̟̗̔̇̏̈́̂͂͘͠Ṉ̶̨̯̹͍̽͆͒́͆̾̒̌͘͝ͅ ̴̲̾͗̃̅͗̀̋̃M̷̢͇͔̻̭̱̭͎͍͆̄͗͊͒Y̴̡̡̡̪͈̯̖̠̻̐̎̓͊̎̅͠ ̴̻͎̖̂S̶̜̘̠̦͌̂͘K̵̬̒͝Ḯ̶̥̮̮̟́͑̽̽͆̌̓N̸͉̙̠̤̺̔̀̔̕W̷͓̮̣̔̂́͘̕͝O̶̺̯̙̥̻͌͐͊͑̐̎R̵̡̬͗́̀̒̀̊͐͐̚M̷͈͙̃̈́̂̈́̀̌̈́S̷͉̻̞̤̭̦̪̻̭̦͊̊͐͗̐͂̅͊ ̷̢̨͓̱͖̹̝̿͆̂͜ͅǏ̴̛̱̒̉̇̀͋́̾͝N̶̨̞͍͈̪̫̪͎͛̿ͅ ̴̢̢̖̺̲͔̦͗M̵̬͎̯̙̝̿ͅY̸̱̩̼̤̠̺͉̣͙̽̑̽ ̶̫͎͆̈́S̵̢̲̖͓̬̼̩̯͑̇̍͆́͝K̷͔̭͎̘̹̞̙̦͒̿̈́͐̾͘͜I̶͍͚̋̓̓̈́̅̐͑̓̿N̵̙̘̮͉̝̅̓̅̍͜ͅW̷̯̝̠̘͓̲͇͉̞̑̕͜Ơ̸̪̍̏Ŕ̴͕͊̈́̓͝͠M̴̪̯̩̹͎̱͍͒̅͂̽̈͂S̶͇͙̿̓͗̅͘͝ ̵̤̖̩͔̆Ī̵̳̝͍̤̄Ņ̷͎̺̜̝̅̀̆̽͒̈́̄͌͠ ̴̢̳̱͚̣̯͖̊͠M̵̛͎Y̵̧̫͙̆̿͂ ̵̢̻̯͔͙̌̐S̴̡̫̤̾̈́̑͒͗͝K̵̖͕͛Į̴͚͎̝̭̖̯̹͒͑̒̈́͝Ǹ̸͉̱̭̞͇̩͐͆̑̉͆̉̄̚͝W̸̬̺̦̰̼̫̖̩͉̝̒͗͌̈́͌̈́͛̑̊͘O̴̜̐͋̀́̂̌̿̽̈͘R̵̛̳̻̬̬̘͍͍̼̄̒̃͂͜͝M̷̧͓̥̼͍͔̼̤̪̠͆͑̚S̷̭͂̐̄͋̑̌̃̚ ̷̡̮͎̺͇͖̦̝̙̹͑̆̀̔̎Ḯ̴̗̤͒̽͌̐ͅN̷̡̖̰̮̪̞̮͔̞̄͌̑͌͠͝ ̴̡͔̦͂̓̈Ṃ̸͈̲̰̗̯̲̩͋͂Y̵͓̞͖̥͍̮̜͎̭̱̎̍̃̎͠ ̷̧͕͇̱̰͙̣͐̽̆̈́S̷̥̩͇̺̜̈̓̇̋̃́̑̊͜͠K̷̢̖̭͙̩̤͍̲̫͈̅̃̉͒̕͝Ì̸̢̡͙̬̪͎͆́̅N̷̲̺̹̾̆͒̌͑̚Ẅ̷̛͉̖͎̊̂͐́O̶̜̳̯͈͛̽̐͛̊̇́̊̓̕R̷̖̱̼̲̗̄̐̕͜M̴͕̠̥̘͖͎̋͊ͅŚ̵͈͙̝͙̬͖̽ ̸̧̛̛͔̤̾̌͊͛̀̊̈́͑I̶̖̔N̶̮̘̻͇̩̬̮̺̽̔͐̐͂͗͗̈́͊͜ ̵̭̩̙͍̳̭͓̼͈́M̴̛̗͙̣̙̗͙̤̾̂́̓̐̍͝Y̸͈̟͙͇̔̆͊͂̾̄̊̇͘ ̷̹̳͎͉̣̎̄

The sharp scent of iron filled the air, mingling with the nauseating stench of his own entrails.

The hallway was slick with blood now, his body trembling and weak, but still, he didn't stop.

His nails found his ribcage, scraping against bone as he desperately tried to dig further, deeper, into the places he could feel the worms crawling.

"HAHAHA! AHAHAAHAHAH!!!! AHAHAHAAHAHA!!!"

He collapsed onto his side, trembling violently as his blood spread out beneath him in a crimson pool.

His trembling fingers twitched, still scratching feebly at his abdomen.

His vision faded in and out, his mind a broken kaleidoscope of fear, pain, and hallucination.

"Worms..."

"I don't... I don't want worms… to eat me…"

__________________________________________________________

"Takahashi, are you alright?"

Juro's head lolled towards the woman who asked after him, his gaze fixed on his own hands.

"He's awfully pale," Edison observed.

Juro mustered a smile. "Nah, I'm good. Just going to find that cheeky avenger." He pushed his chair back and stood up as he left the room.

___________________________________________

"Khgraghh!! Ghuhh!!"

Juro doubled over, retching violently into the sink. The disgusting contents of his stomach swirled down the drain, leaving only the sound of running water.

Juro stared at his reflection in the mirror, face drained of color.

Click.

The sound of the reset echoed in his ears. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, a wave of cold relief washing over him. This was the third time today.

The last two loops had been utter failures; Olethros was far stronger than he'd anticipated.

Wiping his mouth, Juro left the bathroom, lost in thought. How had Olethros even breached the castle's defenses? It didn't make sense. Edison had strict security measures in place.

A throbbing headache reminded him of the ordeal.

He sighed.

He had to warn the others.

Juro briefed the group, carefully omitting the details of his own experiences.

He didn't want to frighten them.

"So, the creature is still at large," Scáthach mused, her eyes narrowing at Li Shuwen, who shifted uncomfortably.

The need for a fight really steered Li Shuwen out of the way sometimes.

Romani sighed. "This complicates things. We need to eliminate this threat quickly before the singularity spirals out of control."

"Doc," Juro interrupted, "What exactly is a Dead Apostle?"

Despite their ongoing battle, he still didn't fully understand the enemy.

Scáthach took the lead, projecting a glowing rune onto the wall. Edison dimmed the lights, and the purple glow illuminated the room.

"Let us begin," Scáthach declared. Words appeared on the wall, outlining the seven ranks of Dead Apostles.

"The first three ranks are classified as the 'dead'," she explained. "Essentially, living corpses."

"Zombies, basically," Romani added.

"Rank 1: Corpse. A mindless, blood-consuming puppet. Easily dispatched by a regular human."

"Rank 2: Ghoul. A ghoul is simply a corpse that has become a little smarter, with a slight will to their actions, but they are still close to mindless.."

"Rank 3: Undead. This is where the strength of dead apostles becomes slightly more powerful. These creatures can disguise themselves as humans and hunt in the sun. This is where the term 'vampire' comes into play."

Juro raised his hand. "Why the ranking system? Is there a hierarchy?"

"We'll get to that," Romani assured him.

"Rank 4: Nightkin. Significantly stronger, faster, and more intelligent. Only experienced magi can contend with them. They become anemic in sunlight but suffer no lasting damage."

Romani elaborated, "Only one in a thousand reaches this stage. In the world of magecraft, they're no longer considered 'people' but 'monsters' once they reach this point. To Dead Apostles, however, they're considered 'living'. Also, If they suck a victim's blood carefully, they can turn them into fellow Nightkin.."

"Rank 5: Nightmare. These creatures can manifest powers from their 'lords'', becoming independent."

"Independent? Lineage?" Juro questioned.

Emiya clarified, "Dead Apostles have a hierarchy."

"Think of it like a king in a kingdom, with servants bringing him food. The first two 'ranks' she just explained to you are like mindless peasants and the third ranks are like soldiers that watch over the peasants while they bring food. The fourth are lower-class knights, and the fifth are like high-ranking knights who can venture out of the kingdom and don't have to feed the king."

Juro nodded, getting the gist of it.

"Alright, I'll cover from here." Romani begun.

"Stage 6: Dead Apostle Inferior. At this point, they can make more 'children', but can't really make them a rank higher than them."

"Now the crazy part. Stage 7: Dead Apostle Greater. Freaks of nature that have gotten stronger powers, recognized by 'Kings' and bestowed with ranks."

"And this is the final stage: Stage 8: Dead Apostle Superior. Basically the king of the castle, the guy who's in charge. They each have their own unique abilities, and can take out entire countries if left unchecked. These guys are the real deal." Romani explained.

"Those monsters are freaks of nature, for them to exist is just… wrong, They destroy everything around them. To think I was labeled as one." Elizabeth said as she tightened her grip.

"These guys have got their own free will, and can pretty much do whatever," Romani added.

"But wait," Juro interjected, "Isn't there an even higher rank? Dead Apostle Ancestor?"

"Never heard of it," Romani admitted. "8 is the highest known stage."

Juro pondered for a moment.

Didn't Olethros say he was a Dead Apostle Ancestor?

What was an ancestor, then?

So many questions kept popping up in Juro's head. Every time he learned something, another question even stronger would show up, smacking him across the face.

But something.

Something in the back of his head lingered. Clinging on.

Why, why was it…

Why was it that he was interested in finding out what happened next?

No, no, stop it.

He had to focus. Now was not the time.

"Let's go over a plan."

_________________________________________

Juro winced as he steadied his breathing, his hands gripping the map Edison had given him.

The dimly lit hallway stretched before him, the only sound the slow ticking of a nearby grandfather clock.

1:00 AM.

He glanced back at the figure standing at the end of the hall. It didn't move, but its presence was suffocating.

"Olethros," Juro called, his voice steadier than he expected.

The Dead Apostle didn't respond immediately. Its masked face tilted slightly, the single visible yellow eye gleaming like a predator's in the dark.

"Not sure how you figured that out," Olethros finally said, his tone calm but laced with menace.

Juro exhaled sharply. "Why are you even here? What do you gain from all this?"

The Dead Apostle leaned forward slightly, his body eerily still save for the swaying of his cloak.

"Does the hunter tell the deer why it must die?" Olethros asked, his voice soft but cutting. "Does the deer even have the intelligence to understand the hunter?"

"Hunter? Great. And I'm the deer, huh?" Juro muttered as he put the map in his pocket.

He clenched his fists. "Cut the cryptic crap and just tell me what you want. Maybe we can reach an agreement."

Olethros didn't move, his body unnaturally still, save for the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

Finally, he replied:

"What do I want? Fine. I'll tell you."

His voice dropped to a chilling monotone.

"When I look at you, it fills me with a singular urge: to kill. Your mere existence disgusts me. Every second you continue to stand there, I feel an overwhelming need to end you. To erase you. You repulse me, Takahashi Juro. Something led me here, and I thank it. To give me this chance."

Juro's breath hitched.

It was clearly a lie, he had an ulterior motive.

But hearing such unfiltered hatred sent a cold shiver down his spine. He tried to speak, to reply, but Olethros was already lunging.

A sharp whistle split the air.

An arrow buried itself into Olethros' side, forcing him to stagger. Juro turned to see Robin Hood perched on a nearby ledge, his crossbow arm raised.

"What happened to the signal, Master?!" Robin barked.

Juro shook himself free of the paralysis gripping him. "Sorry! I froze!"

Before he could say more, Elizabeth leapt from above, driving her lance into Olethros' back. The weapon struck true, but the Dead Apostle twisted unnaturally, swiping at her with a clawed hand.

"You think this is enough?!" Olethros growled, his voice echoing unnaturally.

Emiya appeared from the shadows, slashing Olethros' legs from under him with his twin blades.

The Dead Apostle collapsed, attempting to crawl to its next victim, Scáthach.

She barely made any movements, save for her lance stabbing through its head.

"That's it?" Robin muttered, his crossbow still raised.

"That was underwhelming," Elizabeth said, flicking blood off her lance.

"There is no time for comments, We must get ready to fight the Mad King" Scáthach said, turning away dismissively.

Juro frowned. Something didn't feel right.

Something-

"Break."

The single word cut through the air like a knife.

Before anyone could react, Scáthach let out a sharp gasp. Her leg swelled and distorted grotesquely, forcing her to stumble back.

Robin barely caught her in time.

Olethros rose slowly, his own leg now healed, taking on the shape and power of Scathach's. Smoke rose from his bubbling flesh, and his eye gleamed with sadistic amusement.

"What… the hell is this?!" Juro shouted.

Wasting no time, Li Shuwen darted forward, his strikes hitting Olethros' chest with lightning speed. Blood sprayed, but Olethros didn't flinch.

Instead, he grinned.

"Break."

Li Shuwen froze as his arm contorted unnaturally, swelling and bubbling like Scáthach's leg before it. Olethros grabbed the martial artist by the chest and flung him aside with horrifying ease.

"Damn it!" Emiya roared, charging with his twin blades. Elizabeth joined him, her lance aimed at Olethros' head.

But no matter how many attacks landed, Olethros only laughed.

"HAAHAHAHAAA! HEROIC SPIRITS!!"

His body twisted and warped, regenerating instantly.

"Break."

Emiya winced as part of his upper torso swelled and twisted, rendering his arm useless. His blade fell to the ground.

Elizabeth stabbed Olethros through the back of the head, her lance sticking out from his face.

For a moment, Juro thought it was over.

But then Olethros twisted unnaturally, his body bending at impossible angles as he grabbed Elizabeth by the face.

"Elizabeth!" Juro yelled.

Olethros chuckled. "Heroic Spirits, huh? Fascinating. Your reactions to pain are so authentic, despite being spirits. This human order is truly fascinating."

"Where I come from, summoning Heroic Spirits is considered laughable.."

Elizabeth struggled, trying to free herself, but Olethros' grip only tightened.

Juro's mind raced. He raised his arm, shouting desperately as his command seal glowed a bright red.

"With this Command Spell, I order you! Kill this bastard!"

Emiya and Li Shuwen surged forward despite their injuries, their attacks relentless.

But Olethros didn't stop.

He continued his assault, ignoring the desperation.

A sickening crack filled the air.

Juro froze, his breath caught in his throat.

Elizabeth's lifeless body fell to the ground with a dull thud.

The boy's scream tore through the hallway.

_____________________________________________________________

Juro stared blankly at the ground, his fingers digging into the dirt.

Around him lay the remains of a battle that felt more like a nightmare than reality.

Emiya's face was caved in, a cavity where his face once was. His body lay unnaturally twisted as it faded away, the remains of his twin blades shattered beside him.

Robin was unrecognizable, torn to shreds by the Nightkin Olethros commanded.

His remains were scattered across the battlefield like discarded scraps, his crossbow broken in two.

Scáthach had attempted to throw Gáe Bolg, but her form morphed grotesquely mid-motion.

Her body bubbled and warped until nothing remained but a horrifying mass of twisted flesh and jagged bone.

Blavatsky didn't even have the chance to cry out. Her very existence was erased in an instant, vaporized by her own magic reflected back at her.

Her tomes, now consumed by Olethros, were silent witnesses to her annihilation.

Tesla and Edison fought heroically, but even their combined ingenuity couldn't hold back the sheer overwhelming number of ghouls, once Edison's proud soldiers.

They were swallowed whole, their yells lost beneath the monstrous tide.

And then there was Karna.

Juro watched, helpless, as the hero's headless corpse collapsed to the ground beside him. The mighty warrior had fought harder than anyone, carving through the castle with unrelenting force.

His Vasavi Shakti had obliterated miles of the land, and for a moment, Juro had dared to hope.

But Olethros was cunning.

He baited Karna with the lives of countless innocents, forcing the hero to expend his power protecting them.

And then, the Dead Apostle changed.

He became something else entirely—something that could counter even Karna's divine might.

The battle lasted hours, and yet, it ended as all the others had: in death.

Karna's body began to fade into golden particles, but not before Juro could hear the faint echo of his parting words.

"Do not lose hope, Master. Even in the darkest hour, there is light."

But Juro could see no light. Only darkness.

He clutched at his chest, his breaths shallow. His watch was shattered, severing his connection to Chaldea.

He was utterly alone.

Olethros stretched his shoulders with a casual roll, as though he had merely been exercising. He stepped forward, his movements slow, deliberate.

"If it weren't for the moon, that spear girl might've had me," he mused, glancing at the bloodied remains of his battlefield.

The white light of the moon shone on his back.

His gaze settled on Juro, a smirk curling beneath his mask. "Still alive? You're more stubborn than I thought."

Juro trembled, forcing himself to look up. His voice cracked as he croaked out a question.

"H-How… how did you… beat him? Karna…"

Olethros' laugh echoed through the desolation, loud and mocking. He laughed as though Juro had told the most absurd joke he'd ever heard.

Finally, he stopped, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye.

"Silly boy," he said, stepping closer. "You wouldn't understand even if I told you. But, because I enjoy your suffering, I'll explain anyway."

He leaned down, his yellow eye gleaming through the cloth that veiled his face.

"Have you ever heard of the Ship of Thesus?"

He knew it.

The ancient paradox.

"A thought experiment," Olethros continued, circling Juro like a predator. "If a ship's wooden planks are replaced one by one, until none of the original remains, is it still the same ship?"

Juro didn't respond. His mind was too clouded, too broken.

Olethros grinned wider, his voice growing louder, more fevered. "It's a paradox that has haunted thinkers for centuries! But for me, it's not just a question. It's a principle. My principle."

"But it is not only my principle, for I wield it as Magecraft as well!"

He spread his arms wide, his voice booming across the battlefield.

"To wield a paradox is to touch the pinnacle of Magecraft! Magecraft is rooted in mystery! To wield something that none can ever find the answer for, is to become close to the world of magic!"

Juro stared, unblinking, as the monstrous figure ranted.

"I am not one being. I am many. I do not consume only blood, I consume identity. I am fragments, constantly shifting, constantly changing. My essence, my body, my very name—they are in flux. Even my thoughts do not belong to a single entity."

"There is Olethros, and there is 'Olethros,' and then there is 'Something Else Entirely.'"

His voice rose to a crescendo, his arms shaking with fervor.

"Change, fragmentation, substitution—this is existence! To deny it is to deny life itself! There is no 'true self,' boy! Only the illusion of one, desperately clung to by fragile minds like yours!"

"Immortality? That's what my kin seek. They cling to their identities, to their fixed ideas of self, thinking they can preserve who they are. Fools. They are already dead."

His yellow eye burned into Juro's soul.

"To live forever is to accept change."

"To embrace the destruction of the self and be reborn as something new. That is my power. That is my 'principle': Fallacy of the Self. "

"That is why I could kill your precious Karna.

"I changed."

Juro's lips moved, but no sound came out.

This monster had absorbed and changed himself to Karna to beat Karna. He changed his strength, everything about himself, to fit inside that crack in the hero's armor.

"Some may compare me to that 'Snake', but frankly, His way of doing things is much more rigid and impractical. He wants to remain the same, while 'reincarnating'. How ridiculous."

"....."

"Well, I think that's enough of an explanation. You won't live long enough to appreciate it anyway."

In an instant, he was upon Juro, grabbing him by the scalp with one clawed hand. He yanked the boy upward, forcing him to dangle like a ragdoll.

"Ah, don't look so defeated," Olethros cooed, his tone mockingly gentle.

"Let me help you see the beauty of it all."

Then the strikes began.

The first punch smashed into Juro's face, snapping his head back with a sickening crack.

It was purposely weaker than usual. The dead apostle wanted to see the boy die slowly.

The second shattered his cheekbone, blood spurting in erratic patterns.

The third caved in his nose, sending teeth flying across the ground.

Olethros laughed as he continued, each blow deforming Juro's face further.

As the pain overwhelmed him, Juro's thoughts spiraled. The agony was immense, each nerve on with fire. Yet through the suffering, one thought persisted.

This is fascinating.

The grotesque brutality of it all, the monstrous strength, the sheer wrongness of this situation—it was captivating in a way he couldn't articulate.

In actuality, it was simply Juro's mind turning to hysteria. He had witnessed the death of all his comrades after all.

Olethros noticed the faintest curve of Juro's bloodied lips and paused, his fist mid-air.

"Smiling, are we? What a twisted little thing you are," Olethros mused, his amusement momentarily tempered by curiosity.

Juro's voice was barely a whisper, his words gurgling through blood and broken teeth.

"It's… interesting…"

Olethros blinked, taken aback, before a sadistic grin split his face.

"Well, then. Let me make this your most interesting experience yet."

With a final, devastating strike, Olethros brought his fist down onto Juro's skull. The sound of bone shattering echoed through the air as the boy's head caved inward, spilling brain matter and fat onto the blood-soaked ground.

The Dead Apostle stood over the lifeless body, chuckling to himself.

"Interesting indeed," he muttered, his voice a low growl.

___________________________________________________________________________

"Takahashi, are you alright?"

The voice was distant, muffled, as though it came from another world. Juro didn't lift his head, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

His hand rested on his knee, trembling slightly, though his face betrayed nothing.

Click.

His mind shifted like the ticking of a clock, compartmentalizing everything he couldn't deal with into the dark recesses of the box.

It was second nature now.

He sighed.

Olethros.

The Dead Apostle's face loomed in his mind, that lone yellow eye shining like a predator stalking prey.

His ability wasn't just about change; it was limitless evolution, perfect adaptation. Olethros could take anything—skills, bodies, concepts—and meld them into himself. He became Karna to kill Karna.

He wasn't Karna, but he was enough of Karna to win.

Juro finally looked up, forcing a smile at Scáthach, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"It's nothing. I just need some air," he said, his voice light, casual.

Without waiting for a reply, he stood and walked toward the door, ignoring the concerned murmurs that followed.

As he stepped into the cool night air, he let out a long breath.

Why him?

Why did Olethros keep chasing him?

This couldn't be a mere coincidence. There was nothing unique about him that demanded him a target.

Yet, Olethros had murdered him repeatedly, targeting him with relentless focus.

There must be a reason.

And how had he even entered the castle?

Edison's fortress was fortified with advanced detection systems, layered defenses, and mechanical soldiers patrolling every inch of its perimeter. Olethros shouldn't have been able to breach it, or even run rampant within.

Someone's leaking information.

The thought crept into his mind uninvited, sending a chill down his spine. There was no other explanation.

Someone on the inside was working against them, and until Juro figured out who, they were all at risk.

He clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm as the castle bell struck 1 a.m.

His teeth grit.

Another loop began.

Juro died.

Again.

And again.

The first time, he was ambushed in the hall. A metal rope snaked around his neck, slowly tightening until his vision blurred, his feet kicking uselessly against the air.

Click.

The second time, Olethros smashed his jaw so far back into his skull that death came instantly.

Click.

He watched the others die—Scáthach, Edison, Helena, Robin, and all the rest. Each death was more brutal than the last.

Click.

Shot accidentally by a panicked soldier in the back of the head.

Click.

Eaten alive by ghouls, their cold, decayed hands tearing at his flesh.

Click.

WORMS.

Click.

WORMS.

Each time, the pain was fresh.

Each time, it felt new, excruciating, unbearable.

Each time, it was even more inter-

But he endured.

Not because he was strong, not because he was brave, but because of the box.

He was weak.

He was relying on something else, not his own determination.

He was mentally weak, a feeble dog.

Every scream, every shattered bone, every desperate plea—it all went into the box.

Every ounce of trauma was stuffed inside and locked away with that same mental click.

Juro couldn't cry.

He would scream, slamming his fists against the ground, begging the world to let him feel something—anything.

But the box had no key.

"Why… why can't I cry?!"

He slammed his fists harder, over and over, even as Olethros approached, his footsteps echoing in the darkness.

Sometimes, he would forget what he even was doing.

Where am I?

What am I doing?

Who...

Who am I?

He only remembered every time he felt a strange box in his hand.

Through the endless loops, Juro began to piece together fragments of the truth.

Olethros commanded an army— 182 corpses, 45 ghouls, two Nightkin, and a Dead Apostle Inferior whose face he hadn't yet seen.

This wasn't just an isolated attack; it was a calculated invasion.

And yet, none of it explained how Olethros had gained access to the castle.

Edison's mechanical soldiers could destroy hordes of undead easily. The castle's surveillance systems should have detected even the smallest disturbance.

So how?

Juro pressed his back against a cold stone wall, panting heavily after yet another narrow escape.

So far, Nightingale, Edison, Scatach, and Elizabeth were the only ones who died.

A failed loop.

His knife was slick with blood—though whether it was his own or a ghoul's, he wasn't sure.

Someone's definitely letting him in.

A traitor.

One of the servants, one of the soldiers—someone in their ranks was feeding Olethros information, sabotaging their defenses from within.

But who?

Juro's breaths came in ragged gasps as he pressed himself against the blood-soaked wall, his hand clutching the gash on his stomach.

Every step forward was burned into his brain.

Every time he inhaled, it was as if hundreds of needles stabbed into his chest.

The corridor ahead was a vision of hell.

Blood stained the walls, the air thick with the tang of iron.

Well, this sight wasn't anything to be shocked about.

Gunshots echoed from distant skirmishes, mingling with the occasional screams of soldiers being overrun.

To his left, a soldier writhed on the ground as a corpse tore into his abdomen, the wet crunch of flesh and bone reverberating through the hall.

Juro glanced at the scene but kept walking.

He didn't care at this point.

Why him?

Why did he have to bear this?

His legs trembled as his knees threatened to give way. He bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, as he tried to hold back the tears that refused to fall.

He wanted to cry.

He needed to cry.

To collapse into a corner, curl up into a ball, and just disappear.

But he couldn't.

He stumbled, his vision blurring as his hand brushed against the hilt of his knife.

The cool, reassuring weight of it pulled him from his thoughts.

Actually?

Juro froze mid-step, staring at the blade.

There was something he could do.

He pressed his thumb against the knife's edge, testing its sharpness.

It would hurt, no doubt, but it would be over quickly. He imagined plunging it into his throat. Blood would spill out, suffocating him as the wound blocked his airway.

No.

Not optimal.

The corpse next to him groaned, lifting a severed leg to its mouth, gnashing its teeth as it gnawed on the mangled flesh.

Juro briefly considered stepping closer, letting it rip into him.

No.

Too slow.

He turned to a window.

No.

Not high enough.

Finally, his eyes landed on a revolver lying beside a mutilated corpse.

The soldier it once belonged to was unrecognizable, his ribcage exposed and hollow, both dried and fresh blood surrounding his corpse.

Juro staggered over, ignoring the sharp pain in his side, and picked up the revolver. It was slick with blood, its grip cool and foreign in his trembling hands.

This would work.

This was clean.

He raised the gun, the cold barrel pressing against his temple. His fingers shook as they curled around the trigger.

"Just pull it."

"Pull it."

"....The… next loop will be better. Just do it."

His breath hitched, and the sound of the metal rattling in his quivering hands filled the room.

He was scared.

Rather, it was not that he was scared of the pain of death, as one might concur, rather, he was scared of 'death' itself.

Despite dying so many times, to him, it was as if this was his only life.

As if he was dying for the first time.

"Kh… You're so weak."

"...You're pathetic."

The words burned in his throat.

He let out a choked scream and hurled the revolver against the wall.

It clattered to the ground, a dull, lifeless sound that echoed in the silence.

"LOOK AT YOU!" he roared at himself, pounding his fist against the ground.

"You can't even do something as simple as this! YOU'RE SCARED!"

The knife came out of its sheath, and without hesitation, Juro punched himself in the jaw with the hilt. Blood spattered from his split lip as he fell to his knees.

"USELESS!"

He struck himself again, harder this time.

"DIE!"

Tears he couldn't cry burned behind his eyes, trapped behind the mental walls he'd built around the box.

He was in a corner, there was no one to help. He was suffocated in a dark room. There was no light, just his senses.

His vision blurred, not from emotion, but from sheer exhaustion.

Or maybe both.

He fell forward onto his hands, the knife clattering beside him. His ragged breaths filled the room as blood dripped from his lip onto the floor.

For a moment, he stayed there, trembling in the silence.

And then he laughed.

"Khhh.."

"Kahaha…."

"KAHAHAAHAHAAAAAAAA!!"

"Again! Again! No matter how many times you wipe it, you just end up the same!! In hell!! Again and Again!"

Even though the trauma didn't build up, it still frustrated him.

Whenever he witnessed his comrades dying, it was as if it was the first time, when he himself knew that it was not.

The box simply stored the feelings.

The feelings of sadness, and anger at witnessing someone beloved to you perish in front of your eyes.

"What do I do?! What do I do?!"

His body shook with the force of it, his laughter echoing down the blood-soaked halls like a madman's symphony.

"Someone… Someone help me…" he repeated to himself between gasps, his voice trembling with a mix of self-loathing and hysteria.

It was a cycle.

Die.

Wake up.

Click.

Die.

Wake up.

Click.

Die.

Wake up.

Click.

Die.

Wake up.

Click.

He slammed his fist against the ground one final time, his knuckles splitting open.

His mind was a jumble, he did not want to feel the negative feelings at all!

That was the point of the box, wasn't it?!

But he just kept feeling them again and again.

At this point, he had no reason to even use the box.

A painful death was inevitable, and was slowly approaching him from behind. There was nothing he could do.

"Ah, there you are."

The deep, mocking voice behind him felt like a thousand nails scraping against his mind.

Takahashi Juro simply chose not to move.

There was no point.

A hand grabbed his scalp, lifting his head back.

"Stop acting crazy. You're not on a stage," Olethros said, his tone both casual and venomous.

That voice.

He hated it.

That casual tone.

That casual tone that belonged to a man that tortured him, again and again.

No matter what he did, no matter what he said, he'd always end up getting killed by him.

He hated it.

That same voice that tormented him for so long.

He hated it.

Juro clenched his fists weakly.

"I've been watching you, Takahashi Juro," Olethros continued, stepping forward until his shadow consumed Juro's trembling form.

"And I must say, you're quite fascinating. No, more than fascinating—you're downright tragic."

Juro stayed quiet.

He knew what was coming. Olethros loved to hear himself talk, loved to tear him apart before delivering the final blow.

It was nothing unusual.

"Rather, it seems like you want to entertain yourself," the Dead Apostle said, his voice lowering into a sinister murmur.

"..."

"I'm right, aren't I?!"

"Around an hour ago, one of my ghouls was chasing you. You turned around and had a perfect angle to stab it in the face, to kill it cleanly. Yet, you didn't."

Olethros leaned in closer, his breath chilling against Juro's ear.

"You let it bite you."

Juro's eyes darted to his right hand instinctively, where the deep crescent-shaped bite marks still throbbed, red and inflamed.

"At first, I thought maybe it was a slip-up," Olethros continued, pacing in front of Juro now.

"But then I kept watching."

"In our brief skirmish earlier, I threw a slow punch, telegraphed it. Anyone else would've dodged it."

Juro stayed silent, trembling.

"But you?" Olethros smirked, gesturing mockingly.

"You leaned into it. You let me punch out four of your teeth."

Juro swallowed hard, his throat dry.

"Then it hit me, no pun intended." Olethros said, his voice rising with glee.

"You're not some noble hero fighting for the world's salvation. No, you're nothing like that!

"I've killed so many people that fought for 'noble' causes, that fought for others, and I can tell. I can tell that you're different from them. You're lying."

"You're just a little boy chasing his own amusement, even if it destroys you. You don't care about winning or surviving. You care about making the game interesting."

"..."

"You follow the path that's the most 'entertaining' to you, don't you? Like you're in some kind of play or act, getting watched by a non-existent audience. To over-dramatize or manipulate events in your own ways, leading to an 'entertaining' result."

"Amazing! A puppet controlling his own strings!"

Olethros crouched in front of him, tilting his head as if observing a bug struggling in a spider's web.

"Look, even now, I can see the gears turning in your head. You're thinking, What's gonna happen next?"

"..."

"Oh? Did I hit a nerve?"

Before Juro could respond, Olethros grabbed his scalp again, yanking his head back. The boy's vision blurred as pain shot through his neck.

"You've been sniffing around, trying to figure out how I got in here, haven't you? Let me save you some trouble," Olethros said, his tone dripping with mockery.

Juro's body tensed, bracing for the inevitable.

Then, a blade plunged into his back, twisting cruelly. Juro gasped, blood spurting from his lips.

"Gh!"

"It's funny how often the things we overlook come back to haunt us, isn't it?" Olethros whispered.

"Isn't that right, Avenger?"

Juro froze.

No.

Please, no.

Not her.

No.

He didn't want to hear the voice that would confirm his worst fears.

But it came anyway.

Nothing would follow the wishes of Takahashi Juro.

He was just a stick in a flowing river. Fate would carry him whether he wanted it or not. He was weak, powerless, nothing.

"Yeah," Jeanne Alter said, her voice coming from behind him.

"Ja.. " His voice cracked, raw with disbelief.

She leaned closer, her face now in view.

Her silver hair glinted under the faint moonlight that streamed through the shattered windows.

Her golden eyes gleamed with a mixture of disdain and amusement.

Olethros laughed, delighted by Juro's reaction.

Takahashi Juro's eyes rested on the red command seal on the Dead Apostle's arm.

His face instantly morphed.

"OLETHROS!!!!"

His throat strained as he tried to lunge forward.

"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!! I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL—"

Olethros silenced him with a brutal punch across the face, shattering his lower jaw.

Blood poured from Juro's mouth as his head lolled to the side, his speech reduced to garbled, incoherent sounds.

"Shut up," Olethros muttered, shaking his hand as if Juro's face had dirtied it. "You aren't doing anything to me."

Jeanne Alter watched silently, her arms crossed as if she were a detached observer.

"You're still not getting it, are you?" Olethros taunted, leaning close to Juro's mangled face.

"Jeanne here got tired of your little act. Tired of you trying to fix her."

He grabbed Juro's hair once again and shook his head.

"I think you've got a case of main character syndrome, Mr Takahashi!"

Olethros turned to Jeanne, gesturing grandly.

"You wanted her to be something she's not, didn't you? You thought you could 'fix the broken girl!' Turn the morally grey anti hero into some kind of supporting character! But guess what? Jeanne doesn't need a form forced onto her!"

Olethros slammed Juro's face on the ground, repeatedly.

"She! doesn't! need! anyone! to! change! her! Mr main character!!"

The boy's body fell against the floor with a loud thud as the dead apostle let go of him.

Jalter stepped forward, her boots echoing against the bloodied floor. Her lips curled into a cruel smirk.

"I'm not a saint. I'm not a good person," she said, her voice sharp as a blade.

"But you, Juro? You're worse than me."

Imaginary tears welled in Juro's eyes, though they never fell, let alone even well in the first place.

He did not know why he felt this way.

Perhaps it was from the situation.

Perhaps it was because he failed her.

Perhaps he let her spiral out of control as he tried to figure out his own issues.

Perhaps it was only a matter of time till she would have turned on him.

Perhaps…

Perhaps he knew this would happen at the back of his head, but chose to ignore it.

"I… orry"

She stared at him.

"Don't you dare apologize."

"You thought you could 'save' me," Jeanne sneered, her voice dripping with venom.

"Who do you think you are anyway? Some kind of a savior? Don't give me that bullshit. You're just a liar, everyone is. No one is really who they say are."

"You just butt into the business of people that don't want to get bothered. You kept sticking your hands in the fire, despite the many warnings. You kept pushing it, again, and again. And now you get burned."

"I hate you, Takahashi Juro."

"...You only held me back from what I really am. An Avenger."

Juro's breath came in shallow gasps, his body trembling as he tried to reach for her.

Olethros chuckled.

"Face it, Takahashi Juro. You're not her savior. You're just another distraction."

Jeanne Alter's golden eyes met Juro's, cold and unyielding.

She smiled.

"..."

The last thing Takahashi Juro could see was the pale white face of the person he failed to save.

Something that burned into his mind, from the flames that consumed him.

I ignored her.

It's my fault.

Chapter 19 - The Torture of Takahashi Juro

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