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Fingers tucked into his clothes, you grab him mid-run.
No one can grab him mid-run.
So, he stumbles to his knees in front of you and looks up. He thinks he sees a halo sitting pretty on your head. A holy choir sings behind him. His loose-limbs float skyward.
“Hi,” Wally says pathetically. It doesn’t matter that you might be the enemy—right now he’s convinced you’re the love of his life.
Because no one else can bring about his downfall quite like that.
