#abcxyz

Female sepetarism is deserving of male violence

Men's feelings are on the same level as Women's safety

You aren't allowed to hate your oppressor

Showing hatred towards your oppressor means you are discriminating against them (they usually use this for race and sex)

You must be nice and considerate towards your oppressor

Movements must include their oppressors

Will gets sidelined, his friendship with Mike is ruined, no Wonder Twins, Mike and Jane don't get characters outside of each other, same with Lucas and Max, ESPECIALLY LUCAS. They forget about Jane's staggered speech, Dustin hangs out with Steve for 90% of his screentime, Stancy propaganda, Nikki lives and dies a stereotype with no depth, they only make the upside down more confusing, and there's a million more plot holes.

I can't do ts no more Stranger Things is so special to me STOP MAKING IT WORSE.

(Sorry this is my first time requesting something and I’m so nervous typing this)

Doll notes : OFCCC!! I barely requested anything from my favorite writers cause I'm too scared I feel you!! V x GN Reader.

Warings : Dark content, vigilante violence,emotional instability, manipulation, crime themes, and semi unhealthy relationship dynamics.

𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗓𝗓𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗋𝗁𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗆 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗉𝖺𝗇𝖾. 𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗁, 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋, 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖪𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗍!, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗍’𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗎𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗅. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗑𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖵𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇.

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗒. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖻𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗋𝗁𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗆𝗂𝖼 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝖽𝗌. 𝖴𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗉𝖾𝗅 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝗐, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖳𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇.

“𝖲𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀,” 𝖵 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽, 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗏𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋. “𝖣𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖨’𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖳𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾.”

“𝖵𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇, 𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗋,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾. “𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖨 𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖪𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗍room, 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇... 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖨 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗍. 𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖨’𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽… 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

“𝖠 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋?” 𝖵 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗌, 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉, 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗓𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗌. “𝖠 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅, 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄? 𝖨𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨 𝖺𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎? 𝖠 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗒?”

“𝖭𝗈!” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌. “𝖠𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖣𝖬𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖱𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗋 𝖠𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾.”

“𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖨 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝖾!” 𝖵 𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾. “𝖨 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖨 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖨 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄!”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄. 𝖧𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋, 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖺𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖵𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌. “𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍… 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇… 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾.”

“𝖨 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝗈, 𝖵𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒. “𝖨 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄. 𝖨 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍… 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌.”

𝖵 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾, 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽, 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗀𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌.

𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗉, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗍. 𝖠 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗍.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖺𝖽𝗈. “𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝗈 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖨 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝖨 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀… 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗑𝗒… 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇…” 𝖧𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒. “𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝖾.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗎𝗉. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖧𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾, 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖾,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. “𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝖵. 𝖨 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍 . 𝖨’𝗆 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖨’𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

𝖵 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖵 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝗇.

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