#boris.

🚨🚨🚨THIS WAS SENT BY MY BLACK FRIEND!!!! 🚨🚨🚨

"My brother says you're dangerous."

What I expected:3 good friends fighting against a crazy cartoon producer in ruined studio.

Looks like a cinnamon roll, but could actually kill you:

Alice Angel.

Looks like he could kill you, but is actually a cinnamon roll:

Henry.

Looks like a cinnamon roll, and is actually a cinnamon roll:

Boris.

Looks like he could kill you, and could actually kill you:

After all this time, Spirit should know. She has access to eyes and ears everywhere — damn near omnipotent forces being broadcast directly into her brain. All she has to do is ask. All she has to do is listen. With hundreds of ghosts that follow her specifically, furiously, she tells herself it is difficult to focus on much else, on new voices, on outsiders. And so she remains ignorant, and she blames Boris for it.

"You were gone all weekend, Borya. We had plans," she whines. They were not concrete plans, and they had not been discussed recently, but Spirit feels abandoned all the same.

They run from the gas station holding hands. They've picked one middle-of-nowhere enough to have shitty cameras or none at all, and they've obscured their faces with hoodies and face masks like you wear when you're sick.

A bell dings when they bust out through the door and into the open desert, sun beating down, hair whipping wildly.

She's laughing so hard that she can't breathe. She's breathing so hard that she can't laugh. Boris sh sh shushes her and guides them into a lot of used or perhaps merely abandoned cars. They haven't heard a car engine start or shouting grow closer; the gas station owner isn't following on foot.

Behind a rusty Chevrolet, Spirit grabs Boris's face and kisses him on the lips.

He pulls away, makes a face. She pulls away, makes a face. Maybe not so good, this kissing thing.