. . . . . . ┊⿻ ᥴhᥲρtᥱr 1

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❝ 𝐰𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞,
𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤
𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠. ❞

𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧'𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐯❝        the most dangerous men are those who has nothing left to lose

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𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧'𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐯
❝        the most dangerous men are those who has nothing left to lose.         ❞

standing on top of the space station, he felt quite stressed at the moment. he sat kneeled on the roof, his pumpkin orange-brown eyes scanned the crowd that stood in front of the stage. Jschlatt stood beside the chair to the left, Tubbo was standing in the middle, in other words sitting on the chair, while Technoblade stood beside the chair to the right.

Tubbo was speaking, but his words never reached the male on the roof's ears. the words just flew above his head, fading out of his hearing range. all he heard was a voice beside him speaking to him, a low and deep tone. the blonde beside him didn't seem to hear anything, which was bothering him.

“this could all be over with a click of a button... you just have to walk over there. let's not make it hard, shall we? they don't care for you. none of them do. your friend─ no, your brother, is with the enemy! if your own brother isn't on your side, what's the point? what do you have to lose?“

the voice ─ more like shadow ─ spoke, its voice echoing within his head. his eyes begun to glow a dark shade, his frown deepening severely. he didn't know what to do if he was completely honest. his original plan was to just press the button, to get it over with, but now he wasn't sure. they all seemed so happy. happier than before.

happier without him. maybe he was the problem? he knew he probably was. he always was. back as a young boy, his parents had always complained about how much of a burden he was at times, but nonetheless 'took care of him' in their own way. they gave him food, and patched him up whenever he came home bruises or/and bloodied up. but as he grew, he learnt to do it himself.

which is how he managed to discreetly wrap bandages around his neck and from his elbows down to his wrists, together with parts of his hands. he had pulled the collar of his dark sweater up, covering some of the bandages. his neck and shoulders were covered in small orange cracks, as if he was made of glass. a cracked phone screen. yet he wasn't fragile, he was far from it.

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