Archive of Our Own

Sylvain doesn’t like the new professor. He doesn’t talk much, which he can get behind, but he doesn’t react to anything Sylvain says either, which takes away most appeal he might have. Most. He’s got a pretty face on him, as unaware as he seems to be of this fact, and is just as oblivious when it comes to Sylvain flirting with him. At first, Sylvain thought Byleth just didn’t find him attractive, but then he actually stopped to spy on the professor’s expression whenever Claude or Dorothea were trying to be a bit too charming with him, only to find it completely unfazed. 

Maybe he’s just dumb? 

Sylvain’s preliminary assessment of the man was that he was kind of hot, but then again, that is what pretty much everyone else thought, too. That’s what they all whispered amongst themselves whenever they caught sight of Byleth’s black cape flurrying as he passed by. The motion does draw attention, Sylvain will give them that; it’s like a wave at the corner of your vision with a heavy pull that keeps tugging until you inevitably turn your head. Sylvain feels this tug like he feels the need to reach for ale some nights, for a warm body next to him some others.

That’s not why he doesn’t like him, mind you. It goes beyond his unique eyes, or the way his armor hugs his waist, doing nothing to hide the tantalizing curve that must exist underneath, or the way his dark hair catches the sunlight and evokes a starry sky, or his calm voice, or the flowers he so innocently goes around handing over.

Byleth clearly doesn’t approve of Sylvain’s lifestyle, which is not a surprise, but he doesn’t go out of his way to chide him for it either. He doesn’t mind Sylvain tagging along on their mission to retrieve the Lance of Ruin, and stays with him after Sylvain manages to muster the courage to move and kill Miklan himself. (He retches and vomits the meager contents of his stomach that night, the mere memory of Miklan’s body turning into a monster enough to deprive him from sleep throughout the rest of the week. He washes and washes and washes his hands in hope the blood disappears down the drain. It never happens) . Byleth listens attentively when Sylvain’s tongue goes a bit loose and he lets out that he hates him for being unbounded by his crest, but Byleth still invites him to share tea with him. Sylvain still gets flowers, still gets invitations for dinner, still gets praise and encouragement during lessons.

Sylvain trashes every flower he is given, gives away every gift Byleth presses into his hands.

Ashe loses Lonato and Flayn goes missing. The professor is there to offer support and lead the fights, seemingly having in mind nothing but extending a helping hand and bringing everyone back to the monastery safely.

Point being, what Sylvain doesn’t like, is that Byleth plays the part of a saint and that everyone just eats it up. Even though he was a mercenary. Like, he’s killed people for money. He probably doesn’t do anything if it doesn’t mean a benefit for him in the long run. That must be why he treats everyone so nicely no matter their backgrounds or alliances. He must want to be in everyone’s good graces, a hypocrite who doesn’t mean it when he says the only thing he wants is to protect his students.

Sylvain observes the professor while he sits outside of Bernadetta’s room, without a care in the world, holding lengthy conversations with her through the door; Sylvain catches sight of him tending to the horses with Marianne, sharing the silence with her; he sees the man gardening in the greenhouse while Annette sings a silly melody in a small voice. 

So no, Sylvain doesn’t trust Byleth because he doesn’t know what he is playing at. 

No matter, because he is certain the man is just like all those girls that flock to Sylvain like vultures. He’s just one more fake person in the crowd, yet another empty wave in an ocean of lies.

Yet the smile that delicately touches Byleth’s lips every once in a blue moon, as if shy of grazing such a perfect bow, momentarily makes Sylvain forget his doubts, makes him forget his father doesn’t care that Miklan is dead, makes him wonder if the Goddess herself has stepped out of heaven, only to appear here, before him.

So that tug becomes ever more insistent, growing overtime, and Sylvain finds his eyes searching, coming to the dark silhouette of the professor before he realizes what he is doing.

As the sun sets, dying the sky the color of blood, Byleth peacefully sips from his steaming teacup, uncaring that Sylvain hasn’t touched his in favor of watching him indulge.

After an extended period of silence, the professor gives him a tilt of the head, curious. His tongue peeks out to catch a stray droplet on his lower lip, and Sylvain’s eyes latch onto the gesture. When his gaze comes back up and meets Byleth’s, Sylvain shows him a smile. 

Watching Byleth eat, it’s around that time that Sylvain realizes what this feeling, this gnawing in the pit of his stomach is— 

Hunger. 

As a noble, as the heir to his house, as someone who has it all, Sylvain’s never been hungry. He never thought he’d even learn what that’s like. And yet. 

Needless to say, he doesn’t like it one bit. 

Sylvain shows this loathing the only way he knows how; the same he does with girls. He gives Byleth sultry looks, empty (and not so empty) compliments, offers to carry his stuff and asks him out at any given opportunity.

Byleth is immune to flirting, he rediscovers soon enough, but now Sylvain takes note of something that wasn’t there before; where once he found his own disbelief on the lack of response, on Byleth’s unimpressed gaze on him— now, it’s like a churn in his belly, like a pinch to his side. Something akin to frustration. Despite being aware of what it is, Sylvain doesn’t know where it comes from, so he pins it on Byleth just in case.

He can’t say he’s ever been driven to try harder, mostly because he has never really cared enough about any girl to actually make a conscious effort, but one day he does try with Byleth. He pushes a bit more, and he is properly rewarded. He gets an actual reaction by being bolder, and he feels like a serpent that has caught the scent of an open wound.

Act I: Overture 

The training grounds are empty. Silence rings in the air, together with the slow crunch of Sylvain’s boots in the dirt. He finds Byleth sitting on a bench, tight black tank top a little damp after his drills, bare arms resting lazily over the back rest, head cocked back. His eyes are halfway closed. Byleth’s body is completely still in that unnerving way only he can manage. A statue that breathes.

Sylvain hates what the sight of those biceps do to him. And that bare neck . To think that’s the most skin Byleth’s ever allowed them to see. He is as generous as he is selfish, Sylvain supposes, gaze raking up the clueless professor. He tirelessly gives away every second of his time, yet he denies them of a single inch of flesh to feast upon. 

Sylvain approaches, a bottle of water in one hand, swinging it like a lure.

“You should be careful dressing like that, professor,” Sylvain says lightly, jutting at the shirt that clings to the man’s inviting chest like a second skin. He plops onto the bench next to him. “You're practically inviting scandal.”

Byleth doesn’t seem put off by the comment at all.

“It’s hot,” he muses as an excuse. 

“That you are.”

Byleth ignores that altogether and reaches up to take the water. Sylvain doesn’t let go right away. Their fingers brush.

“You're lucky I’m so considerate,” Sylvain murmurs.

“You brought that for yourself.”

“And I’m willing to give it to you. That’s considerate.” His voice is playful, but the way he watches Byleth drink is not. His eyes follow the line of the man’s throat, the twitch of his jaw, the small wet shine on his lips as he pulls the bottle away, the soft sigh that he lets out.

Sylvain slides closer, letting his hand brush the back of the bench. It moves slowly, unassumingly, nearly on its own, until it reaches the back of Byleth’s neck as he pretends to inspect the seam of the shirt.

“You’ve got dirt here,” he mutters. His thumb runs over the skin at Byleth’s nape; a smear of nothing, wiped away with slow, deliberate friction.

Sylvain feels it, that throb beneath the surface, like a second heartbeat in his gut. His stomach tightens. His hand slides a little further up Byleth’s neck, twirls a lock of green bright hair around his finger.

Byleth pulls away, finally looking at him — really looking — with a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. Curiosity? Discomfort? It's hard to say.

Sylvain gives him his best smile. His fingers find the inside of the shirt, just below the collar. In a swift movement, Byleth’s gloved hand catches his wrist. Firm. Not aggressive. But not nothing .

And something in Sylvain’s mind goes quiet. Then loud, so loud it’s as if someone is shouting inside his skull. It sounds like his own voice. A ring akin to tinnitus is about to explode in his eardrums. 

He hears himself say as if far away, through a film of water, “Relax, Professor. You’re always so serious.”

Byleth lets go, but not before his fingers lingers an instant longer than necessary. A mistake, maybe, a delay. But Sylvain feels it like lightning coursing through his body. His world narrows. There’s only that brief, electric pause, that contact, and the sudden realization that Byleth has never touched him before.

So he’s not a ghost. I can get in.

And for the first time in his life, Sylvain doesn’t feel dismissed. He feels seen . Not as a joke, or as a flirt. 

Maybe as a threat?

Byleth touched him, so it must mean that, despite everything, Sylvain is real.

After that day, Sylvain is left reeling. Like high on adrenaline. It’s better than coming down to town and drowning in ale. It’s better than sex with strangers. Although it’s a lot like sex. 

He gets more physical with the professor, playing dumb and pretending he’s always been like this. He touches his shoulders whenever he sees him without armor, softly but purposely digging his thumbs into the bone, casually lets his hand linger on the man’s lower back, makes the most of sparring sessions where he can throw his entire body weight against Byleth and can’t be faulted for it.  

During the after hours, when no one will interrupt, Sylvain is always brushing against his body, invading his personal space, blocking his way and playing it off as if it isn’t anything other than a fortunate accident. 

He especially likes getting close enough that their height difference becomes apparent. His stomach craves . 

“Come on, just one date. Let me show you a good time.”

“I’m your teacher.”

Sylvain scoffs.

“Is that what you tell everyone?”

Byleth doesn’t react to the jab, but Sylvain knows for a fact that he is not the only one asking Byleth out. He also knows he is one of the few that can offer him stuff he might be actually interested in if he yields.

“You know one day I’ll be margrave, right? Bet I can get you a nice deal if you, you know, do some stuff for me.”

Byleth dismisses him easily. The rejection makes Sylvain want to slap him across the face, if only to force him to look back at him. But well, a margrave is but a peasant compared to a King, Sylvain supposes. He plasters a smile on his face and bites back those words that threaten to spill out of his mouth like venom. 

He hugs Byleth from behind whenever he gets him alone, arms tightly wrapped around his waist and chest pressed to his back, an excuse so he can get a good whiff of soap and leather and speak directly into the professor’s ear; he casually corners him against the bookshelf of his office to force him to speak up, shows him indecent books he’s found in the Abyss, gaze roaming his face ardently, always searching. 

“You into this kind of stuff, Professor?” he asks, flipping through pages and pages of impressively detailed drawings. 

Byleth huffs, eyes already elsewhere. 

“Put that away before Seteth catches you with it.”

Sylvain talks and shares details of his love life, more specifically the sexual aspects of it, and takes the chance to ask about Byleth’s.

“You look stressed lately, Professor,” he says once, innocently sliding on top of Byleth’s desk as he watches him work. “Thought about getting laid anytime soon?”

Byleth’s eyebrows arch, albeit he doesn’t seem scandalized in the slightest.

“I don’t see how that is any of your business.”

Sylvain gives him a wink.

“It could be, just so you know.”

The professor always seems taken aback by this, but he is not one easily flustered. A mercenary wouldn’t be a blushing maiden, that much is obvious. Sylvain likes observing him either way, propping his chin onto a hand as he leans over his seat in the classroom.

He tries again, and again.

“Saw a whore in town that looks just like you.”

A slight frown.

“When was the last time you got lucky?”

An annoyed side glance.

“Professor, I swear you look like you give great head.”

It reaches the point where, after who knows how long, Byleth starts catching on and being somewhat vigilant around him. But he never snaps at him, never swats his hands away like he did that day, never really denies him. Why? He doesn’t avoid him, doesn’t stop sparring with him.

Sylvain draws closer to Blyeth, unnecessarily trespassing into his space, violating that sole yet thick, stubborn line between them. The summer uniform hugs that figure so nicely Sylvain doesn’t even bother trying not to ogle. 

“You look so damn fine in that,” he coos.

Byleth pretends to ignore him, but that coldness makes the thin hair of Sylvain’s arms stand on end all the same. It makes it ten times better whenever Sylvain does especially well during Reason lessons and Byleth gives him such a contrasting, proud look. It kind of makes Sylvain melt a little. Makes him forget about all the bad stuff. 

It is exciting as it is infuriating. 

It wouldn't be a problem if Byleth humored Sylvain and just him, but he is always fluttering around the monastery like an unassuming butterfly, with black, elegant wings that smell like syrup dripping under the sun. Sylvain can’t help but taste bile at the daily reminder that Byleth really is like this with everyone— flashing those eyes and smiling beatifically like the minx he is. It must swell his huge ego, knowing he’s got everyone wrapped around his finger like this, must believe he is above them all. Only Sylvain seems to know the professor is not that perfect, as much as the man tries to keep up the charade. 

But he still helps Sylvain study, even after he tries to grab his ass. He helps Dimitri train orphan children, gives Mercedes particular lessons on Faith magic and exchanges books with Ashe. 

The day Sylvain witnesses this in the distance— that is, Ashe and the professor’s lame book club meeting, something comes over him. It’s an uncomfortable, horrid sensation he only suffered once when he came back stumbling to his dorm after a night out. Completely unrelated to the nausea and lack of sleep he suffered, this damn feeling haunted him throughout the day exclusively whenever he was unfortunate enough to see Dimitri and the professor together, taking walks during the early mornings, just for the pleasure of it, basking in the gentle sunlight of those first hours of a new day. Sylvain felt like banging his head against the wall between his room and Dimitri’s, felt like that wretched restlessness forced him to be especially nasty towards Byleth later during that day. One of those times, it made him open up his collar, just so the smudges of lipstick and hickeys were out in the open. Then he turned on his heels, marched directly towards the pair and pretended he just happened to run into them. He reveled in the way Dimitri’s blue eyes went wide at the sight of his neck, clearly scandalized, whilst Byleth granted him a once over but not much more. It didn’t matter, because that spite Sylvain felt merged into satisfaction. He showed them that while they wasted their time being all wholesome and just sharing each other’s company as everyone else was asleep, Sylvain was out there, having the time of his life. 

And speaking of which, Sylvain likes Dimitri less and less as of late. It's because he isn’t just another student; he’s the golden boy, the prince, the one with natural gravitas — and worst of all, he has Byleth’s attention in a way Sylvain feels he can never earn, only steal.

Anyway.

Now, that same restlessness, that same spite, forces Sylvain to stride up to Ashe and snatch that thick tome Byleth just gave him from the boy’s wimpy arms. Ashe can barely begin to protest when Sylvain throws it into the pond. The boy tears up a little, confused, and Sylvain wants to give him actual reasons to cry, but reels the urge in. Byleth comes to see him afterwards, clearly disappointed, and Sylvain wants to kick him in the ribs until he hears them crack.

Byleth drives him nuts. And it’s revolting how much Sylvain can’t stop looking at him.

The mere sight of Byleth ruffling Annette’s hair, all pretended innocence as if he doesn’t notice how she turns red, puts Sylvain in a state of turmoil, makes him rub between two fingers the leaves of the sleeping herbs he always carries in his pocket. 

Interlude: Snow, want, violence

Oh, and there are the dreams. Sylvain doesn’t want to get started on the dreams. There are no rules for those, no justification, no masks; just Sylvain’s raw psyche, unfiltered. In other words: the most honest part of Sylvain is the part he can’t control.

They can be very different from one another, yet Byleth is always the axis Sylvain’s crumbling sense of self spins around. Of course he is. 

In one of them, it’s always snowing. There are snow covered fields as far as the eye can see. Dead trees and a grey sky remind Sylvain of home. He is standing outside the old manor, the one that always smelled like smoke and steel, and the courtyard in front of him is frozen over. Blood might’ve been spilled here once, but the snow’s buried it long ago. Everything looks eerily clean now. 

It would be a look into the past, if not for a dark silhouette that doesn’t belong in the picture. Byleth is there, not dressed for the cold. He stands in the snow like it doesn't touch him as it slowly falls, eyes far away, like the frost isn’t eating away at his boots, like his fingers aren’t turning red even in his gloves, beneath the wind. Sylvain wants to offer him something— shelter, a coat, a hand, but he can’t move. Maybe it’s Sylvain who wants those things from him, actually. 

Byleth turns slowly, walks towards Sylvain. The ground doesn’t crunch under his weight, and he doesn’t leave footprints behind either. He looks ethereal, as if glading, like the ghost Sylvain has always thought he is. Byleth crouches in front of him, and only now he realizes he himself is kneeling in the snow. His breath comes out in small puffs, his lungs hurting with every draw of cold air, but Byleth’s proximity feels like a hearth, if only a little. Sylvain wants to get closer to that warmth, yet his legs won’t answer him. 

They probably broke when he fell into the well, and stayed like that for the rest of his life.

“Do you think you’re different from your father?” Byleth asks. His voice is soft, but it carries like a blade dragged across glass. “From Miklan?”

Sylvain’s voice is lost in the cold space between them. The howling wind doesn't respect mortals like it respects the Goddess. Her eyes are empty — not cruel, but absent. Like snow is falling inside Her too.

“Do you think wanting me makes you better?”

Sylvain doesn’t know what the right answer is, if there is one.

And then the Goddess says— Byleth says, almost pitiful, “You only want me because I didn’t ask for your Crest.”

He’s wrong. He’s right. He only matters to Sylvain because he doesn’t want anything from him. 

There’s another kind of dream. This one is always about Byleth’s throat. It shifts constantly, but often takes place in dark rooms, in classrooms after hours, in Byleth’s quarters late at night.

Sylvain observes the way that bump in Byleth’s neck flexes when he swallows. The slight hitch in his breath when Sylvain leans too close. He studies the elegant curve of that neck with his eyes, with his mouth and his hands, and Byleth allows him to.

Ah, this Byleth. Sylvain likes this Byleth the best. He is beautiful, quiet, yielding. Better yet, in this dream, Byleth reacts . His lips part. His voice cracks. His thighs shift under Sylvain’s hands.

And Sylvain gets to touch him everywhere.

He maps Byleth’s body with eager hands, adoring. He peels back the professor’s layers like silk. Exposes bone and tendon and the flutter of a pulse under pale skin. He presses him down, murmurs sweet things into his ear, tastes the salt of his sweat.

Byleth never fights him in this dream.

Sometimes he begs. Sometimes he goes still like prey, heartbeat frantic like that of a bleeding lamb. Sometimes he threads his fingers into Sylvain’s hair and pulls him closer and whispers, “I’m right here, this is real”, and he sounds elated, as if he too, has never wanted something so badly in his life before.

When Sylvain wakes up from this dream, it’s with teeth clenched and breath uneven. And he’s hard. Always. Nothing he can’t fix, luckily, be it by himself, furiously jerking off right before getting ready for class, or waiting it out until it gets dark outside and he can go out to look for help. But either option leaves him empty all the same.

Then there’s the dangerous dream. 

It always starts the same. Byleth is looking at someone else. 

It doesn't have to be romantically, just tenderly. That quiet way he gets when he listens carefully. It could be Dimitri. Or Felix. Or anyone. It doesn’t matter. It’s not Sylvain. And something in his chest snaps like a frozen bone under pressure.

In the dream, Sylvain is already moving before he thinks.

He grabs Byleth by the collar and throws him back— against stone, against wood, it changes all the time. Byleth’s eyes widen in shock.

“Look at me,” Sylvain spits, voice shaking with something too large for his throat. “LOOK AT ME.”

And Byleth does. But there’s no animosity in his eyes. It’s sorrow, like he is the one in pain. Sylvain hates it.

Sylvain hits him.

Not hard, not at first. A slap. Then another. Then he’s gripping Byleth’s jaw so tightly his knuckles go white.

“Why him?” he snarls. “Why not me? I tried. I did everything right. I would’ve given you anything. I still—” His voice cracks. “I still would.”

Byleth bleeds. It glistens red, like a flower petal at the corner of his perfect mouth. It’s beautiful. Sylvain wipes it away with his thumb, then smears it across Byleth’s cheek like warpaint. Didn’t Seiros bathe in the blood of sinners? It then stands to logic that punishment becomes proof— If Byleth bleeds because of him, then Byleth is marked by him. 

“Hate me, then,” Sylvain whispers, tears streaming down his face. “If that’s what it takes.” 

It’s alright. Sylvain doesn’t seek ██ anymore. Did he, at some point along the line? No matter, he’ll do with presence. He doesn’t just hate Byleth here. He hates himself, too. And so he punishes both of them.

This dream is about forcing attention, even if it’s violent. Even if it’s hate, even if it’s fear. 

Because fear still means you see me.

If hate is the only thing Sylvain can pull from Byleth that will be his and only his…

He leans in, pressing forehead to forehead, trembling.

“Then I’ll carve it into you. Every time you look in the mirror, you’ll remember me.”

Byleth closes his eyes. And says nothing.

Then, there’s the scary dream. 

I̷̖͛̂̽͋̔̑͝t̸̪̤͔̫̜̟͈̘̭̱̩͖̗͔̉͛́̑̈́̇̃͗̊̋̿̈́̎̒͆̈́̑͒̎̑́͒'̷̪̬̞͎̟̾͛͛̾̂̈̐̌̈́̓̚š̷̰̞̰̭̯͓͚̭̃̋̀̀̈̓ͅ ̶̡͔̲̣̞̈͗͗̉ḅ̴̛̖̂̏͋͝á̶̡̤̭͇͉͈̫̬͔̲͇̟̦̮̝̳̗͕̪̐͑s̸̡̨̧̢̹̪̞̹͚̪͚̳̉̔́̐̈́͗̈́͋̇͜͠î̶͉̹̠̄̇̀͐̇̑̈̍́̒̀̀̿̒̄̚̕͝͠ç̶̛̛͙̫̟̬͎̭̲̭͊̐͂͂͐̌͒̆̋̑̂͆̊̍̍͋̏̕͝͝a̷̡͇̰͚͚̝̣͖͎͉͖̭͙͆͊̏͊̊͜͝l̷̨̛͉̟̤̗̼͎̞̺͇͍̗̂l̵̢̠̠͖̥͕̤̉̐̾͘ÿ̴͈͕̳̲́͂͆͐ ̵̡̨̛̛̙̞͖͉̠͓̣̝͕̖̦̬̙̙̺̦̦̻̪͈̼̇̒̏͋̓̇̐̃̌̎̈́̈̐̎͂͐̚͠͠ą̷̘̲͓̺̗̱̼̖̓̅͒̃́̌̀͋b̵̧͓̗̩̹̦͎̫̭̮̤́͆̍̇̇͊̆͛̉͝ò̷̡̨̤̮̮͕̲̱͖̪͓̬̤͌̑̋̈́̎̋̈͋̄̓͗̐̏̽̈́̾̚͘͝͝ͅu̸̧̯̥̖̲̻̭̦̦̓͘t̶̢̧̧̙͓͎̱͎̞̟͇̲͉̱̘̻̠̭̰̳͖̖̆́͑͋̿̿͐̆͗̑̿̔̄͝͠ͅ ̷̪̳͔̜̥̳̙̘̩͈͎̪̳͈̥̩̥̉̈́̊͜ͅh̵̢̺̟̭̺͉͖̲̀̉̂̈́ǫ̸̡̳͕̞͉͍̯͎́͊̈̇̐͐͛̉̍͐̄̽͌͗̑̇̓̃̂̓w̶̥̤̬̦͍͇͇͈͉͑͛͆̽̽̇̔̐͋̃͂͑̅͘͝ ̴̫̗͖̬̲̭̩̬͙̗̬̰͂̈́́͛̑͂̐̃͂́̎̈̓̇̑͝͝͝m̷̛͙̦̰̬̝̹̻̘̫͉̰̬̟̪̖̦̬̠͆̑̾̅͌̒̕u̴̪̭̠̭̩͖͍̱̳̼͈̭͙̮̘͂̊̏̋͆̽̾̈́̇̊̈͜͜͜͝͝͝c̸̡̞̙̞̣̥̼̘͋̄̀̀͌̋͗̐̿̓͒̓̓̇̉̿̄̓̓̀̐͘h̷̡̺̲̱̑͒̉̈̋̓̓͒͋͊̉̇͊̅̕̕ ̵̛͍̟̖͖̫̖̪̤̞̗̫͇̘̼̠̪̿̂͗̈́̈́̾͐͒̏͝ḩ̸̠̮͉͕̪͕͙͈̥̭̼͎̩̣̟̞̰͖̯̫̍̏̈̔̍̿̍̒̄̏͑̽͒̾͒͒̌͐̎̕̚͘͠è̵̢̧͍͎̤͔̬̭̤̱̼̘͔̦̥͎͛̂͐̒͛͜͜ͅ ̶̢̢̨̖̯̜̜̣͙̝͖̼̼͚̙̞̦̪͈̝̰͖̍̐͂̋̏́̃͛̑͆̓́̊̏͛́͌̇̕̚̕̚͝w̸̢͖̞̮͐̀̋́a̴̛̛̼̪̪̰̙̟͙̖̓͋̒̏̅͂̋͘n̵̲̰̜̖͚͓̂̃̓̏̒̋̾̇͒t̸̺̠̝̟͙̰͔̰̙̥̽́̄̄̾͌̍͒̃̈́̽́̈́̓̐̇̓̒͒̚̚͘͜͝ś̵̢̼̣̦̼͓̯͎̔̓̄̈́̿̈̓͊̅̈́̐̆̕͠͠ ̴̡̨̣̝̖̱͈̺̤̖͔̼͎̼͉̤͚͍̓̀͋̆̇̌͒̍͋͂̾́̌̎̍͌̎̈́͘ͅț̶̨̲̣̬͇̻͇̺̙̲͓̲̤̻̬͙̲̦̱̇̄͜͝ͅͅǫ̵̡̢̡͔̠̣͇̲̜͔͇̝̭͕̦̙͈̞̐́̌̐̋̽̓́̄̀̑͒͛͘̕͝ͅ ̸̡̧̞͍̯̰̙̪͕̜̘̰̘̻̻̯̖̰͔̠̑̚ĺ̴̻̠̘̝̺̞̤̞̜́͐́͋̍̌̃̌̋̋͊̽̅͊̊͝͝͝ͅơ̵̦͕͖̮̬̺͎̄̉̒̎̈́̓̈́̒̋̓̆͐͝͝ḑ̵̨̢̨̻̹̺̘̰̠̺͉̮̱͈̺͓͈̭̖͍̰̘̉͑̾̓͂̽ǵ̷̤̹͍̘̝̤̺͆̾̾̀̅̈́̄́́͘͜͜e̴̢̡̧̧̛͉͍̬̺̜̱̤̥̘͍̜̼͚̻͕͈̱͈͖͊͒̀̋̿̉͒̈́͊̄̐̈́̂̓̿̀̒̾̕͘ ̵̺̝̭̞̭̰͍̺̄̿̈́͗̋̄ą̷̖̙̤̣̮̪͙͖̮͍̙͚̹̩̟̜̟̂̂̾̀̂̈͗̄ ̷̪͐̾̓̌͋̐̆̒̈́͐̃͋̅ķ̶̛̥͓̯̣̙̝̠̻̮͗̄̆͑͆͆̀̈́͊͊̓̊̇̇̃̕̚̕͘ņ̴̨̡͖͍̮͖͖̜͈̱͎͍͈͗̃͊̋͋̈̅̋̀̂͐͐̔̇͆͑͆͆̈́̚̕͠͝í̴̡̢̨̛̭͎͍͕̩̠̖̥̹͎̖̝͋̔̈́̏͒̎̔̅̂̐͝͠͠ͅf̴̨̩͉̭̦͕̳̀̌́͜͜ẹ̸̢̮̖̪̬̰̪̠͔̮̿ͅ ̵̨̳̦̥̖̜̗͚̮͎̻͇̯̙̩̊ḭ̴̧͙̙̬̙͎̳͕̺͖͔̒̏̈́̌̄͆̿͝n̵̛̘͕͎̲̽̅̒̇́̀̈̚ṱ̸̓̉͊̅o̸̡̯̻͚̗̲̯̼̭̬̱͓͍̿ͅ ̷̢̜̘̬̱̜̞͓͍̥̘̏͋̇̀͋̅̀̃̀̏̃͗́̍̌̕Ḑ̷͔͉̰͈̝̐̽̏̈́̀͑̆i̵̢̜͖̦̮̲̟̤̻͕̫̯͇̥͔͒̂m̴̢̤̭̊̔͗͋̃̊̎̈̈́́͋̀͠į̷̩̜̟͊̈̄̾ṯ̵̲̫͓͊̉͑̾͛́͂̌̈́̿͐̍̈́̅̒̿̚̚͜͝͝͝r̷̨̧̞̤͙̺̱͇͇͈̄̑̏̀̊́͑͑ͅͅȉ̸̭̯͙͉̝͈̖̱̗̻̦̘̥͕͚̱̫͎̯̪̘̓̀̉͒̉̎̋̊͂̅͐̆̽̌͊̀͘͜͠'̸̳͙̝̞̲̬̀̑̐͂̈́́̒s̷͚͎͖͎͙̝̻͕̰̦͕̺͒̇̎̋͆͒͐̈̓͗͗̍͋̍̕͝ ̸̢̢̘͎̪̦̻͔͇̬̞̤̲̬̬̯̟̪̻̋͗͑͠ę̸̧̺͈̥͇̻̝͍͔̪̤̳̪̣͔͚̙͍̭͙͊̑͆͛̚̕ͅͅy̷̘̤̳͖̫̬̪͓̔e̷̢͇͓̮̲͚̭̰̙̘̟̿̉͆̕ͅ ̵̨̧͔͉̱̥̝̳̯̯̱͓̖̲̣̘̰͈̠̝̘̮̠͋̅͛̒̚͘͠s̴̢͈̳̠̞͕̦͖̪̱̲̗̹̭͓̞̲̕ǫ̴̲̟͑͒̐͋̽̿̂̈́̍͂̊͌͆͗͗̈̃̆̕ͅç̸̗͓̰̦̲̲̹͈̻̤͕̦̙͚͉͓͍͉͖̦̀̉͌́͛̿̀͊͌̈̉̄̂͗̄͘̚͠k̴̢̛̯͖̲̲̥̟̬̬̰̜̝͔͓͙̥͔͙͒̈͜͜e̵̛͙̙̭̣̘͉͚̰͙͕̦̓̌̈̄̾̀̈́́̃͝͝t̸̪̐͂̉̀̆̈́̈́͋͂̄͐̽̾́̕͘̕s̴̨̝̘̹̞͖͔͔̟̖͕͒͋͋̀̈́̾̐̌̔̚̕͘ͅ ̸̛̛͙͚͙̞̜̯̼̮̹̭͚̫̹̲̗̈́̈́̋̄͌͒̓̓̈́̿͒̎͋̔̑́͌́͘͠ͅû̴̖̭͚̬̈́n̷̡̡̢̢̤̟̝̜͓͈͇̳͓̬̥̗͓͚̯͋̀̆̓̒͗́͂̓͐́͊̌̇̽̓̃͊͐̉͒͘͠ẗ̵̨̛͎̠̺̠̲̖̯͎̹̯͔̫̦̼̺͕̣̼́̆̋͆͛́͌͛̕̚ͅi̴̖͎͉͉̜͓͆́̔͐͒̔̊̋̓̽̾̃̏̿̃̈͊̉̃͊͛̕̕ḽ̵̡̟͑͂ ̷̡̨̢̳̭̟̯͎͈͔̬͙͕̺̗͍̺̬̽̓̓̇̃͗̽͑͋̌̏͐̏̓͜ͅͅh̶̢̨̦͍̗̯̖̠̳͈͈̮̜̫̹͇̦͔͉͑͋̽̔͛̀̏́͗̾̓̅̿̈́̚̕̕ͅę̷̡͉̝͙̭̰͎̪͓͙̰̥́̋̆̉́̽̈́͛͑̀͋̓̆͗̚͝͝ ̸̝̬̩̽͒̾͗̈̃̀͊̏̆́̓̿̊̎̓͐̈͘͝͠g̶̢̞̯̻̖̟̗̳͇̼̼̜͎̰͙̝̫͚̣̔̋̒̇̑̇̃͐͗̕͜͠ͅẽ̴̛̞̭̻̺͙̬̭̹͖͇̪̦͉̪͈͙̙̊́̅̏̑̿̀̏̆̓́̄̎̆̈́̚͝͝͝͝t̵̛̩͊̑̀̇̈̊̽͊͐̽͛͗͛͗͆̊͘͝s̴̛͉͂̂̉̉̇̈́̆̀̀̇̃̓̔̄̑͗̀̈́͝͝ ̵̖͓̿̐͋̑t̵̢̨̡̤̩̘̜̹̱͇̪͓̙͎͈̦̩̩̱̞̘̠̃̓̑̿̐̇͑̄̈́͘ḩ̵͉̪̪̝̫͈͓̝̋́̌͒̾͒͘ͅr̴̛̼̺̞͖͔̭̟̫̼͖̩̤͌̾̌͑͐͆̋̆́̽̃̿̀͆̔̆̂̇̃̕͝o̶̢̢̢̧̹͉̪͈̫̟̩͙̦̦̰̭̭̺̲̙̓̽̑̃͌̈́̋̽͊̇́̅̀́̎̏̆̓̃͌͠͝ư̴̧̥̰̙͍̻̠̰͇̠̪̱̰̲͌̇́̉̿̿͑͆͘̕͠ͅg̸̡̛̰̱͈̟͎̰̣̻͙͎͎͈̯͊̈́̐̾͐̀͐̈́̆̀̊̅͂̔́̾h̸̢̩̖̻͙̱͈̮̳̥͓͍͋͆̈́͐̄̊̌̋͠ ̶̡̡̡̯̻͎̥̗̜͙̬͓̦̯̥͐̿͗̑̓̇́͌̆̑̋̓̏̕̚͜͝͠ͅh̴̢̨̩̗̜̫͈̞͐͌̂̏̄̈́̉͒͆͝ĭ̴͖̻̙̖͔̰͎̒̓̐͗̇̈́̐̎̊͌͆̊̚̚͝͝͝͝͠ͅs̶̢̛̝̖͍̹̩̤̖͠ ̴̧̘͈̫̫͇̘̣̜͙̦̲̞͓̀͂̓̍͌̚ͅf̶̢̨̯̝̼̹̠̝͍̞̈́̈́̏̂̎̈̈̚u̴̢̮͎̟͎͈̦̠͕̟̣̞̔͋̂̔͊̔͆̆̓̓͋͊͗̓̃̾͒̏̏̂͘͝͝c̴̢̨̬͇͚̖̝̙̜̱͇̭͚̺̝̙̲͕̱͚̭̿͑̎̈́̈́̀̉̀̄̅͜ķ̵̧̛̛̲̥̪͍̗̻̭̬̓̆̍̑̒͑́͋̋̈̒̃̀̇̈́̔̔̀͜͝i̸̡͔̙͆̅̐͛ṉ̴̠̂̓̾̓̿͋̂͋̔̂͛̌́̈́̕͘͝ǵ̸̡̨̛̛̖̱̙̲̬̮̫͉͙̩̘̳̗̳̤͓͊̎͌͂͑͜ͅ ̵̨̪̖̰̬̤̱̜̩̩͖͈͕̞̖͔̼̈́s̷̯̳̱̻̘͈̣͈̒̿͌͂͂̀̊̌̏ͅk̵̡̹̲͉͍̬͇̤̣̝̝̱̝̖̭̫̯̠̻̬̫̺̑͂̽̃̂̈́̐̽̇̀͒̈́̓̅̒̈́͛͛̓̎̎͜͠ü̷̮̏̉́̄̈́̾̀̃̐͋́̈́̎̚l̵̡̫̗̎̐̊͐̋͗͐̃́̅͛̃͂̍̊͑̓̕l̶̢̨̡̗̼̙̞͚̞̮̞͈̗̻͖͔̪͎̪̘̿͛̒́̌̅̅̍̽̚ ̶̧̩̳̱̙͈̔̉́̓͌̈́̆h̴͈͈̘̦̬̙̳̳̥̘̝̰̹̭̹̲͙̱̤̫́̿ȩ̵̛̪̣̬͖̭̝͉̱̟̪̤̽̐̂̑̏͗͛͒̾̀̆̂͋̚͜͠͝ ̷̧̨̝̖͈̟͔̝̀̇̃̂͊̄̿̃̉͌͌̀̏́̃͛̕̕̚h̶̨̡̢̧̨͓̬̖̪̘̲̹̜̣͉̻̩̦̮̹̫͚̳͋͋̐ā̸̢͇̳͕̼̮̟̫̂͆̐̔͂̇̌̔̔̈́̚̕͝s̵̡͉̰̼͎̗̰̠̟̆̿̇̓͗͆̽̇̿̐̔̀͋̅̏̔́̕ ̸̨͈̞̜͉̺̖̗̰̜̟́̿̽̃̎̋̎̊̀͗͝͝n̵̡̖̣͎̫̤͈̘̙̫̤͈͉͈̮̞̣̤͖̓͆̏̆͋̒͊͆̍̿̊́̕͜ȍ̷͍͚͍̻̜̖̹́̇̀̐̀̐̍̇̋̾́̇͛͜͝͝͠ ̵̨̱̞̠̃͗̾̇̾̈́̉̈́̉̃͋̓͂̚͠r̷̡̡̡̨͚̙̥̞̘̭̞͍̲͉̙̱̫̟̰͎̘͗̾̄̊̏̎̏̇̀̈́̔̎̅̿͛̆͋̔̈́̀̊͘͜͝ỉ̶̢̢̧̝͚͇̯̩̗͇̪̦̝͍͖͙͍̝̯̻̳̝́̔̈́̈́̓̑͐̐̓̄͌̋͐̑͆̂̀͠ͅg̴̢̡̛̫̺̟̳͕̮̞̗̫̟̖͕̖͍̠̜̽̇̓͑́̆̊͛̽̅́̍̃̈́̒́̐̈̆̕͠h̸̲̞͛ţ̸̘̱̩̪͍̠̦̦͉̗̻̫̮̣̻̞͉̞̝̪͐͋͂͑͊͊̍͗̋̓̍͋̌̓̌̊͝͝ ̸͍̥̲̉͂t̴̢̧̢̯̣͖̻͎͚̭̜̦̳͎͎̟̱̟͎̓̃̀̂̂̃͊́̋̓͐̇̒̈̈̑̕͜o̵̧̡͉̩͚̥̞̲̘͙̻̦̜̝̟̘͗̓̓̓̃̌͐͋͐̊̋̽̊͌̈́̇̈́̕͜ ̸̢̢̟̱͍̪̝͕̭̰̪̭̺͎͈̘̱͖̣̖̈́̏̄̐͂̓̀̆̐́͜͝͝ͅẽ̸̡̳̗̭̭̥̠͍̔̌͑͌̀̽̓̆̃́̈́͌̃̑̆̓͑̎̉͘͜v̴̲̩̤̪̱̻̀̂̍̋͑̋̑̐̍̑͑͂͂̇̇͐̽̕͘͘͝è̷̱̜̩͓͎ņ̵̢̛̳̦̟̠͖͙̪͎̮̜̱̪̺̖̯̣̖̿́̾͋̌͠ͅ ̵̨̛̛͎̫̝̜̻͉͕̠̥̞̘̩͇̒̎͊̊̋͑͊̔͊͌͋̈́̐̈́͒̊̇̾̉͠l̸̡͙̩̣̖̩͉͚͔̭̙͓͎̪̝̳͕̮͈͇̳͑̓̈̾ǫ̶̡̨̲̬̟̤̯̣̳̜̼̎̄͌͜͝ͅǫ̷̡̛̝̹̞͔͔̞̮̩̗͈̩̫̹̞̰̪̤̈́͛͑̊̃͊̿͝k̵̛̜̜̲̪̼̏̀ ̸̮͈͙͍̟̭̠̝͙̹̈̀̒̑͒ắ̶̡͍̦̝͉͎̺͕͇̝̮͈͔̹͚̲̲͔̪̫̰̥͗͋̂̅̆̃ͅt̶̡̧̢̝̳̖͉͕̯̻̭̫̀̔͊̊̋̋̽̔̏̀͜ ̸̧̼͙̩̜̾͌͛̾͝B̷̨̨͉̖̘͇̙̣̦͔͇͚̬̥͑̈́̅̔͆̀͒̇̓̿̐͛̈́͋̀̓̎̈́͑̚͠ỹ̴̨̨̧̰̤͇̻͇̞̪͉͈̜̼̖͚̤̮̠͈̤͓̀̂́̐͒̑̊̍́̄̓̍̀̒͌͊͑͘̚͠ͅl̶̡͉̯͇̣̣̭̞̱͚͎̥̥̖̦͌̾̉̋̈́̍́̅͘̚͝ę̷̧̡̙̮̣̫̝͈͓͖͙͇̹͔͕̥͉̺̱͉̈́́ͅt̸̯̓̓̓͂̔̑̀͆̎̉h̷̞͉̟̼̫́̄̎̾̍̀̎̈́̒̋͘̚̚͘.̸̧̧̛̰̘͙͙̻̝̻̭̤̎̎͆͌̑̅͑̐̌͋͊̈́͛̓̚̕̕͝

̵̨̧̛͇͔͖̟̭͎̫͉̥͕̟̦͓̘̻͕̝̳͆̓͗̌̍̏̍̉̅̈́͆̈́̔́̃̋͒͝ͅS̸̨̧̡̨͎̦͓̜̣͚̟̗̻̮͍͇͉̠͖̠͎͎̽̓̊̆̈͋̋͂̓́̀̋̊̾̅̔̌́̒͝ͅȯ̸̘́͊̒̓̈́͌̓̅̔̊́͌͗̆͌̎͒̓͝͠m̴̨͓̖̼̦̟̻̣̺̈͆̉̔͛͋̽̂͐̓͆̅̒̈́͆̅e̷̛̼̬͎̖͂̇́̿̃̂͘̚͝͠t̸̨̡̹̳̲̣͓͚̞̘͖͖̞̘̖͎͙͈͔̤͑̑̋͗͒̎͌̓͊̅̄̋́̈́͑̕̕͠į̴̢̧͙͎̯̰̲̗̤̻̘͍̣͔̲̹̺̗͆̋̾̋͂̔͗́̍͛̓̈́̃́̔͛̍̆͜͝ͅm̶͉͎̺̖̼͖͔̤̘͙͓̱͙̹̦̬͖͈͇̞̈́̈́͝ē̴̛̬̲̟̙̗̻͕̲̪̍͌̃̃̌̇ͅs̵̛͕͇͇͉̳͖̠̭̗̪͈͙̬̯̞͆͂̑̒͛̀̐̏̊̚ͅ ̵̡̨̛̱͍͚̩̬͑͒͂́͑͐̃̄͆̇̚͠͝D̷̜͗́͂͑̎̽̇̎͋̈͑͆̈́̑͠i̵̡͓̫̞̜̳͖͗͆̈́̾̅̏̓̑̾̑̾͋̀̈̈́͐͋͘͜m̵̛͖͆̒̈́̓̂͂̐̎̏͠͠ḯ̸̡͙͓̫̺̘̼͈͉͈̪̯̔͋̔̇̉̃̀͋́̃̇̊̆̀̾͗̋̈́͘͜͝ͅt̵͕̼̱̙̓̽̓͋̍̆͝ŗ̷̧̙̤̠͕̝̻̻̠̟̮̥̝̪̺͈̭̱̟̳̥͂̂̀́̿̔́̐̆̾̊͂̿̊̌͑̿̚͘į̷̧͚̙̳̙̪̪̲͓͖͉̠̟͎̺̥̖͎̗͑̿͂͒̓̄̕ ̴̡͓͙̹̈̾̓́̔̓̅̂͛̑̈́̆̈́̔̚͘͝͝f̶̨̢̨̱̲̫̹͓͓̞̥͕̺̅̀͐̊́̈́̓̚̕i̶̢͔͖̞̠̗̪͎͎̮̙̗̲̻̝̹̪͙̱̹̊̂̊́̈̇̍̋̽̉̌͊̈̋̈́̕͝ġ̵̢̛̜̗̩͚̖̦̹̥̞̙͉͙͚͈̻̠̩͈̎̈́̆͜ͅͅȟ̶̡̧̙͉͚̭͙̪̤͕̞̜̘̭̩̙̞̘̥͗̍̒͛͐ͅt̷̨̡̨̡̤͎̻͖͍̯͎̱̘̖̲̜̪̝͓̝͖͓̓͂͗̀̈́͗̊͌̿̐̎͆̆̓̆͂̍̐̀̿͘͜͝ṣ̴̬̣̾̿͒̂ͅ ̸̼̱̝̥͍͓̻͍̘̝̖͂̂̒́̅͂̑͘̚͠͝h̴̢̖̟̗̳̗̤̼̯͈̙̮͊̀̓͌̅̽̍̀̓̅͗̊̀̈́ì̸͉̮̞̪̣̣̤̮̻͙̂̈͒̾͆̌̾̿͠͝m̴̦̺̣͎̩͔̗̓̈́̄̀̆̈́̀̉͒́̈́̈͊͗̌͊͗̒̚͝͝͝͝,̷̼̙͇̥̦͇̺̯̼͊̑͠͝ͅ ̸̢̠̗̭̥̹͓̗̪͍͈̯͑̅͆̄͝ͅs̴̢̯̙̗̹̲̻̣̫̲̯̗̣̝̔̔̇́̊̆̾̌̉̓̊̿͛͐͑͊͗̓̊͌ơ̷̢͓͇̲̟̻̬͚̩̱͚̗̘̝̘̪̟̮̟̲͖̞̠̾̄̄̏̑̌͑͒̽̿̆͐͌͗̃͑̕̕͝ ̶̢͓͔͎̞͔̺̻͚̠͈͙͆͛͒͂̔̒̉̽̑́͘͝h̷̡̡̨̧̛̜̦̝̻͍̭̜̱̯͗̓̑̽̎͌̈́͗͆̾̅̽̑e̷̡̛̘̯͇̭͚͙͚̱̣͛͛͐̎̎͛̓̓̔̂̈́̀̌͊̒̈́̐͊͑̚͝͝'̵̢̨̨̛̭̩͔̣͖̱̯̤̮͇͕͓̩͈̩̯̲͎͒̎̔́̂̚̕s̴̫̘͑͌̌̀̽͑̑̉̓̂̂͒͆̊̃̍͘͘̕̚͝͝ ̷̛͇̮͙̯͇̾̎̀̌̒̃̏͝f̷̪̜͖̈́̃̊̆̀̿̇̒̊̓͆̈́̇̄̈́̈̃͒͘ơ̶̧̟̼͎̹͕͎̱̪͔͖̯̲̮͇̮̯̗̬͙̯̩͋̑̀̔̎̐̈́̑̆͂͗̍̿̂̋͒̕̕͠͝r̶͖̦̙̞̥͍̀ć̶̢͉̪̯̭͇̜̦͙̗̲̙̱̫̗̖̭̠̝̻͜ḙ̶̲̙͔̬̺͓͚̝̥̂͑̽̏͘ͅd̸̡̛̙͚ ̷̨̢̧̧̛̰̪͔̟͔̞̤̱͎̟̓̆̌̓͌̐̈́̎̓̇͑͘t̸̖̞̙̗͇͕͕̪̯̘̘̥̝̙̞̤̫͒̂̀̌͒͝o̸͚̝̘͕̯̙͔̲͕̳̥͂͂̔̌̇͂̏̏̕ͅ ̶̧̢̛̦̺͖̪̱̩͍̘̭͋̈̆̊͊̎̎̊͂̔̐̍̕k̶̛̠̟̗̓̐̉̆̇̄̊̀̀̇̽̎̈́̊͊̓̆͘͝ḙ̴̡̢̘̤͉̻͙̹̦͉͇͕͓̼̬̣̂̓̍͗̔̒̎̋̚ͅͅė̴̛̼͎̺̥́͛̒̄̓̒̉̓͛͘͘͠͠͠p̷̳͛͛̃͒̀̓̈͒͒͌͋̃́͌̐́͝ ̷̢̥̳͙̰̦̦̲͙̱̬̦̖͓̱̗͗́́̋̀͝s̶̡̛̼̻̟̙̱̻͙̻͚̫̝͍̜͈̅̏̓̀͊͌̈́͊̇̔͌͘̚̚̕͜͝͝͠t̸̡̰̺͔̰̥̲͙͎̑̒̑͋̐͊͂̈͌̏͑̔͌̾̀̑͝͝a̸̡̢̱͕̬̫͓̠̬̗͎͈̮͇̭̘͗̈́̍̀̂̏̀͐̏͝b̶̧̢̨̧̟̯̤̞͈̬̼͍͖͖̞͋̂̒͐̉̇̈́͜ḅ̸͉͂̂͑̃̈͐̈̇̍̓̉̌̉͂̔̏͒͊̄͠͝i̵͍͔̤͗̔̅̊̀̿̈̈́̈́͂̐͛ṉ̸̍̒̽͋̑́̈͋̒̄̆̓̌̚̚͘͝g̵̛̝̪̼͌̍͂͒͒̌̽̊̏̓̈̐͒̽͐͗ ̴̳̼̞͎̊́͆͗̇̍̊̋̒̃͆̐̾̕͜u̵̢̢̡͖̤͉̰̩̥̣͖̝̻̜͙͉͈͎͇̓͛̇͘͜͜ñ̶̤̲̦̳̰̹̣̰̀̈̈̉̀̑̇̏̀̓͌͗̔͘̚̚͠͠ṭ̷̛̺͚̈́̏͋̍̋̔̾͒̕͝͠͝i̴̧̡̢̻̟̭̹̝̔̓̅͛̉̒͑̚͘͝l̵̨̤͖̬̖̤͙͖̦̰̘̤̈́ͅ ̵̨̢͇̙͚̥͌̀̀̒̿̏̍̉̀̏̄̉͒́̈́̒̍̒̕̕͝ͅt̴̟̤̪̼̂̊̄̔̓͌̀̕ḥ̸̡̦͉̼͇̟̱̪̹̱͖̬̪͙͈̽̊͐̅̿͗́̾̏́̑̕͝ͅḛ̵̡̨͈̟͈͎͕̙͚̏͂̈́̒̉̈́̂͆͂̅͌́́̽̄̌̾̎͘̚͜͝ ̴̢̨̗̘̫̌̐́̓̔͂͆̊̄̅͂̀̒̽̚͘͠b̶̡̧̛̜̻̗̙̙̖̝̩̥̎̋͆́̉̏̈́͑̈́̒̀͝͠ͅa̷̰͔̥̻̟̫̖͙̳̦̘͙̘̱͛̀̾̈́̌͋̽̀͆͋̎͆͜š̴̢̧̧͍̦̠̻̭̟͎͕̤̦͈͉̟̬͚̯̯͑͑̂̀̽̀̾̆̔̅̈̈̅̋̽̃͐͘̚̚̚t̵̹̹͕̥͎͍̱͎̬̩͉̖̒͛̿̃a̵̢̝͖̳̼̜͔̼̪̖̠͙̪̮̩̟͈̙̳̾͌̑͋̊̈̌̀̇̀͐̿̀́̚̕͝͝͝͝r̶͕̥̦̿͘ḑ̴̨̡̹̬̬̻̣͖̙̮͔̟̹̻̳̟̻̍͒̓̎̈́͂ ̸̢̛͚̰̳͎̞̣̗̺͂̔̆̉́̽͒̎̉͑̌͘̚͠s̸̭͔̝͝t̶͍͍̥̟̱̘̟͇̳̘͓̟̝̜͇͌̃̃̎͊́̀̐͘ͅo̵̭̓̑̈͒̄͋̈́̾p̷̹̜͈͈̻̪͛͑̊͛̄̀͊̔͌̽̓̅͛̈́͆͒͑͊̚͘͠͝͠ș̸̬̏̿̍̒̈́̃̎̿̏̑̈́̔̂͛́̐͊́͘͠ ̶̛̪̙͇̳̖̤̫̯͍̰͔̘̻͌͐̀̂̆̊̔̈́͛̾̃͂̌̋̚͠ͅm̸̧̢͈̱̰̳̝͈̯̦̮̻̣̰͎̖̰͆͐̅͌́̾̍̉͠o̸̢̫̘̫͉̲̳͖̰̬̤̮̓͋̒́̕͝v̸̡̛̞̘̏̓̀͐̽̎̇̐͐̏̓̏̀̈́͗̚̕͠í̷̯̹̓̏͑͐̈n̴̢̡̗͎̟̼̟͈͉͎͉͈̒̎͋͜g̷͈̫͎̗͔̈́͂̈́̋͊̂̿́̕͜.̸̢̡̛̻̙͚̼̠͔̲̹̬̜̭̟̮͓̩́̽͒͌̂̎͛̓̈́͋̈̍͋̚͝͝ ̴̧̜͎͓͖̤̱̬̝͙̺̀̈́͝H̷̺̪̫̗̖̻͗̾͊̿́̓̃̎̾ȩ̴͍̥̮̭̫̮̣̺͇̦̯̲͎̫̜͇̥͔̘̹̳̓́́̏̊́͛̓̆͛͒̀̋̒̈́͊̅̇͑̕͘͠͝ ̴̨̨̻̠͔͍̟̰̦̣̻̬͔̬͋̈̀̇̍͊́̈́̂͊͒̓͌̓̓̈́͜͠͝ͅk̵̡͎̹̖͙̼̦̼̳͚̦̻̙̫͇͖̺̤̫̈́̉̈̔̈́̇̓̒̿̊̏̽̈̄̿̚͜͠ͅe̴̯͐̉͗̈́̈́͑̉́́̎̅̃̄̂͑͗̈̊͘͝ë̶̢̨̛̖̘̻̤̳̭̫̤̘̩̺̙͇͓̥́̌̌͂̋͒̎͗̿́̔̊͆̐̒͜͝ͅp̶̧͖̟̱̖̹̹̖̪̘͔̝͇̮͍̤̯͖͐̀́̽͆͋̌̾͊́̎͂͆́̾̏͜s̶̬͔̮̠͓͎̗̩̬̼̼̬̮̣͒̃͠ ̴̧̩̙̘̩͇͔̟̘͈̰̘͓͔̖̹̳̱̞̮͑͐̈̏̈̏̈̈́̌͐͗̂̏̎͗́̚͘s̸̨̨̡̛̛̲̣̜͕̪̻̲̖͕̤̫̩͖̭͈̬̹̫̱̻̀͋̌̈́̿̊͗̐̇̈̾͆̓̊̍͊͋͘̚̕̕t̵͍̰̽̓͗͆̌̇̇̐͊a̴̻̔̀͆̈́̾̆̋̃̈́̋b̵̘̼̩̙̼̬̻̯̻͉̲̱̰̃̿̅̕b̸̢̡͕͚̼̲̝̱̙̜̘͔̱̰̞̣̠̈́̀͑̋̏͐i̶̱̣͋͑̂̄͐̄́̾̑͆̅͝n̷̨̨̛͈͔̯̖͉͇̺̼̞̈́̔̓͌́̌̀̏̈́̑̈̒̾̆̿͘̕ǵ̶̨͕̝̣̳̟̲̝̼͚͕̪̝̳̖̲̙͍̰̾̀͑̅̍͂̇͜͜ ̷̡̯̖͔̬̭̟͉͓͇̞͖̮̰̘͈͙͔̯̥̜̀̿͆͊̈̕ͅe̸̪͙̭̅̈̄̇̾̾̿̎́̊̚͘̕v̵̖͙̭̬̺̰̬̬̜͚̰̟̣̘͖̤̂͊̈̓̈́̈̓̈́̔̽̀̎̋̊̄̑̃͜͜͠͝ͅȩ̵̢̛͓̠̼̜̱̼̩̭̦̭̰̠̈́̿́̎̌͑͒͆̽̊́͊̄̀̒̓͜͜͠n̶͖͉̠̣̠̺̘̯̞͕̥͙̼͔̱͉̒̇͛̈́̓͋̄̊̽͝ ̸̹͎͕̬̜̱͓͐̑́̑͘͜͝a̵̺̬͈̰͔͎̪͖̘̤̮̟̙̬͇̔f̷̧̢̯̰̳̭͗̆̂͒͌̓͐̊͗̎̋͝͝ţ̵̢̖̮̗͚͎͚̭̗̫͚̼̗͇̙̥̪̯͆͊̎̓͋͑̈́ę̶̢̛̤̺̞͙̮̥̳̻̪͍̀͒̉̓̾̇̑͒͂́̒̈́͌̓̚̕r̵̛̬̪͕̮̳͈̈̈̀̋̄̿͐͆̀̈́̕̕.̸͇̭̭͍͈̬̜͙̲̺̦͎̻̭̙́̐̀͝ ̶̠̩͔̼͖̠̰͇̗͍̍̅̊̀͋͊̍͗͑͝ ̴̨̧̛͔͎̪͓͍̩̯̮͔͖͙̫͒͛̄͐̅̒̀̑̄̇̆̈̂̋̂́́͗̎̾̈́̕ͅͅH̷̢̦̳̰̟̼̘̦̘͔͍̣̩̪̦͖̄͒̎́̓̋̊͑͜e̷̖̟̫͖͕̼̙͗́̓̍̓͑̅́̃̓͑ͅ ̵̢̢̢̨̭̫̰̦͕͕̮͎̣͓̖̱̱̣̭̭̩̬́̓̀͐͗̀̏̎̃̃́͂͛̀̀̅̃̈͘̕ͅt̵̨̢̡̤͎͕̳̯̫̰̟̜̝͎̣̼͉̞̣͉̘̀̓̿̒͑̒̄̑̒͒̽͒̄̕͘͜͝ḥ̸̢̰͎̝̰̰̹͍̮͉̬̝̦̰̝̠̮̣̞͉̈́̓̈́̀̽̈̆͋̿̃̀̓͠͝r̷͓̖̜͖͚͖̭̻̯̙͖͚̘͎͇̱͔̰̯͎̥͖̍͊̒͠o̷̝̙̯̮̬͎̹͈̙̪͍̳͍͈̬̮̪̲̒̅̈́͂̓̂͊̐̀͑̓̏͋̈̓̌͘̚͜͠͝͝ͅw̵̢̯̭̱͆̄s̸̢̢͎̯͓̟̬̹̮͓̲̩͓̹̦̣͉̥̘͉̟͊ͅ ̴̧̡̹̹͖̪̣͔͈̪̙̲̒̈͒̅́̄͑̃͆̒̀̍̈̋͒̉̎̔͘̕̕͝ẗ̶̜͈̹̟̦̟̳̰͖̬̘̥̠̺̍̒̌̐̿̇͌̌͋̔̆̕̕ͅh̷̨̡͖̯͖͔̺̬̭͍͇̒́́̂̔̐͋͐̑̆̄͛̎͘ḙ̷̛̰̝̉͗̾̑̇̀̃̾̈́̏̀̿͒̈́̏̈́̈́̿͘͝͝ ̵̛̟̭͈͙̰̙̞̹͈̗̪̺̈̑̈́̓͂́̈́͋͑k̷̡̨̢̛̰̬̼̺̳̦̰̹̮͇̖̬̦͕̘̼̋̎̈̓͒̄́̊͑̋͑̀͋͗̅̉̚̚͠n̶̢͔̣̩̤͎͈͚̟̳̖̹̝͓͎͚̪͖͆̽͘͜ͅì̷̩̤̤̰͈̱̠̤͓̤̹̱̫͚̳̦͔͙̞͉͍̥͒̈́̑̑̈͊̀̓͊f̷̼̝̺͙͉̬̳̼̩̪̬̣̦̺͙̣̣̞̗͔̿̃̄͐͘͜͠͝ͅę̶̢̡̲͖̣͇͓͖̣̼̰̭̬͚̗̩̦͗̅̅͑̐͜͜ ̶͇̻͆̒̽͆̀͗̄͑̒̒́͒͝a̸̡̡̡̼͔̭̪̝̟̳͖͖̫͉͈̩̾̇̓̆̀͊̈́͋̍̊̏̈́͗̕͘͠͠͝ͅͅw̴̡̡̠̹͈̻̮̖̼̹̞̗͕̹͉̜̠̗͔͖̎͝a̷̢̢̖̤̯̺̬̯̙͈̮̠̖̟͖͚͔̞̓̉̓̀̓̅̕͝y̶͔͕̬̪̹̼̦̳̲͍̮͈̖̖̥͛̽͋̎͋͛̂͊̀̔̈́͐̾͘͠,̷̨̡͈̱̥̭̳̲̞̅͗̇ ̷̨̞̏̎̍͐̓͒̾̋̇͂̉̀̀̏͌̍̓͋̈́̒̂̈͝d̶̡̛̛͔͚̠̝̣͉͉͙̼̩͇͍͍̬̐͆̏͒̊̓̓̀̽̚͝ͅo̵͖̖̮̣̼̥̫̫̓͋̐̃̀́͝ẻ̵̪̻̬͚͖͕̠̝͎̮̬̄̀̀̑̍̔̈́́̔̑̌͂͛̈́͑͘̚̕͜͝͝͠͝ś̸̡͕͔̤̗̻̙̼̩͕̩͚͎͍̙̮͕̦̈̓͋̇́͒̄͛͐̊̋̅̒̍̈́́̐̃͜͠ͅn̸̛͇̯̈́̐̌̆́́̾̕'̵̡̳̱̞͖̪͓͖̀͌̎̆̽̾̉̐̽͆̒̅̈́͗̏́̇̚͝͝t̶̨̡̨̬̣̼͉̬͚̙͚͚̘͔̻͕̰̻̻͓͎͊̊̎̽͛̂̆̆̑̇̽̐̕̕̚̚̕ ̵̣̬̖̬̼̦͋̊̈̾̈́̓̓̉͂̎̀͑̕c̶̢̢̛͕̭͔̲̝̲̊͆̈́͋̑̄͌̐́͆̉̈́͝a̷̰͓̥̍͝r̵̢̠̰̫͉̞̜̖̟͇̟̖̣̈́́̀́̽̔̈́͂̒̾̿̎̑̊̈̈́̾͘͝ḝ̶̰̹̲̰̞͉͇̩̬̻̮̆ͅ ̷̼̫͆̊̂͛͋̇̈́̈̈́̈́̈́̒̌͑̓͊̕͝͝͝͝͝w̷̛̦̖̫̲͌͆̔̎̈́̐̀͊̿̋̽̇̇̿̽́͂̿͝ͅḥ̵̢̩͚͍̖͇̟̳̣͈͉̹̠̐͗̈́̉̉̓̀̍̋̈͘͜͠͝e̴͕͓̹̲̫̞̔̄̈́̊̾͐͊̆͂̓̇̈̐̿́̚ͅͅr̴̢̧̧̧̢͚̘̥̯͉̗̜̞͙̠̠̂̐́̂̇̉̑͒̈̋̓̍́̒͘̚͝é̴̡̨̧̞̥̬̝̭̠̥̻̱̞͖̰̪͚̪͚̱͚̝̘̓̉̎̑̄̏̕ ̸̨̨̢̛̙͚̟̬̣͉̻̙̻̬̻̫̭̙̖̫͚̞͙̍̏̓͗͋̃̆̈̕͜ḭ̶̛͍͙̞̬̓͗̐̈́͆̈́̐͆̂̕͜͠͠ţ̵̰̪̝͇̘̬̼̗͉͉̙͉͉͇̭̭͖̫͋̇ ̴̛̪͆͆̿́͋̃͊̍̀̈́̒͝͠͝l̸̨̡̡̛̛͈̫̳̖̞̻̳̠̠̖̤̝̬̒͋̍̔̈́͐͐̒̀̈́̓̌̏̕̕̚͘̕a̴̲̟̲̳̝̅̋̅̂̎̓͌͂̍̂̎̿̊̃̓͛͊̑͛͘͘̕͜͠ņ̶̲̤̳̩̠̻̤̝̘̖̥͕̘̿̆͆̔̽́͐͐̈̈́̑́͠ͅͅd̸̺̙̖͎͔̙͙̼̺̪͔̫̖͍̭̙̜̭͒̈̊́̀̾͊͜s̸̢̢̹̼͚͍̞̹͋͐̄̌ͅ.̴̧͇͚͍͍͇̻́͋́̈́͊̌̈́̽̚͝͠

̷̗͖̯̗̜̇̽͊̀͗͗̈́̎̋͐̔̈́͊̂̃͗̊͛̚͠͝B̵̧̢͎͍̼̺͍̲̤̬̱̤̻̺̳̪͈͙̜͇̿̊̓̃̋̏̓̿̉̾̿̈́̉̓̉ͅy̴̖̙͍͎̓̑̂̈́̔̆͗̐̚͘l̵̢̢̨̡̧̢̩̟͍̲͚̳̙̹̗͈̖̩͍͇͎̦̥͋̈́̎̀͐̈́́̂̓̀̔̿̉̓̒̆͛͘͘͘͝e̷͍͇͔̝̭͌̅t̷̼̩͚͉̫̠̤̹͍̦͉̣͚̹̭̘̩̖̿̄͛̂̓̊̒̋̈̒͌̚͝ͅḩ̷̡̨̦͚͖̱̪͖͔̦͉̻̆̔̒̓͗̇͆́̆̀͂̉̏̊̈́̍̚͘ ̴̨̡̪͙̙̗̮̤̭̖͍̪̲͇̫̲̬͇̏̽͗̏̃̓ͅĉ̸͇̣̱̞͔͉̼͇̗̻̼̻̺̾͜ṟ̸̛̤̠͙́͌̏͂͗̽͋͐͐̾͜͝i̸̱̤̪̝̻̟̘̲̹̿̈́̆̈́͆̓͑͗ḙ̸̢̢̭̻̗͉̱͔̮͍̞̙͈̞͉̞͇̼͉͖̽̌̐̽̏́̈̒̊̄̑̉̇̇̋͛̋͌̕͜͠s̸̪̲͇̋͒̃͒̋̍̆͊́͒̅̑̈́̚͠ ̸̧̨͍̳̗͍̲̞̯̥̓̓̕a̸̡̠̤̩̳̭̣̤̩̝̫̦̣͍̲̬̖̗̲̓̓̈̐̆͊͂̓̍̋̿̄̃̀̓̀̈́͛̔́́͒͜͝ͅn̵̡̨̡̧̰̦͖̣̹̺̥̟͍̠̹̩͔̗̱̥̊̃͌̂̐̒͗͐̆̍͒̐̿̈̒͋̇̀̅̓͝͝͠d̶̢̧̢̧͓̤͈̘͇̱̦̠͇̟͈̹̹̼̽̐̽̓̑͋͌͠ͅ ̴̛̪̥̘͎̣͇̺͎̻̼͇̮̖̥̱͚̙̾͆̍͠ͅc̶̘̥̿̽͛̔͜r̵̢̫͈͉̤͉͈͓̮͊̓͛̃͊̓̿̏̉̀̒̂͛͗̐̎̈́͛͝͝į̸̢̢̛̤̥͙̬̰̟͙̤̰̩̫͈̌͒̃̈́͊̈̒͑̍͘̚ė̶̬̙͖̮̳͙̱͎͇̭̲s̶̡̧̡̢̢̭̬͔͓̤̰̻̺͕̯̟̩̟̹̹̯͊͛̂͂̾͛͋́̇́́̎̇͊̈́̽̃͊̏̚̚͜͠ ̷̖͆̾̓̒̂͐̆͗̀́̓́̂̊͒̽͑̔̀̎͌̐a̶̡̜͕̼̗̣͖̗̗̪̪͇̫̩̤̯̙̼̮̹̯̍̈̉͝n̶͚͍̘̩̰͕̏̈́͐͒͂͋̓͐̏̀̑͒̍̈́̀̍̽̚̚̚͝͝d̸̡̢̧̛̥̳̠̤̞̲̖̹͉̘͙̟̠̳̜͖͕̼̒̏̿͛͆͊̀̀̀̃͂̑͑̚͜͝͝ͅ ̵̧͔̮͎̙̊̃̓̒̇͋̾͂̿̈́̄̾͒͂͑̌̒̽̕S̴̨̠͓̤̪͔̙̠̹͔̗̝͕͖̻̙̹̳͔͒̑͑̌͐ỹ̴̢̲̗̭̟̱̫͓̘̦̳͒́͛́̉̐̈̒̔̒͌͂͂̿̆͛͊̂̑̕͠͠l̵̨͍̫̭̋͋͊̾͒̂̀̀̑͘͜͜͝v̵̛̰͚̫͈͓̹͇̰̫̔̔͛̽́̀̐͂̎́̾͒̈͐̽̌̌͆̀́͘͝a̴̡͕͚͉̳̤̱̣̠̾̈́͊̔͋̒̀͑̿̔̋̀̇̎̓̅͝͠ỉ̴̡͙͍̭̠̺̫n̶̨͒̓̂̀̑̌̾̍̊̈́̈̐́̚͝͝ ̶̨̝͖͚͇͇̠̟̝̝̰͙̯̻̺͓̭̺̺̰̟̅̔͆́̾̈́̇̽̂̽͠ē̸̢̛̦̪̮̙̦̬̪̹̥̜̲̘͖̮̣̋̂̊̕ṅ̴̢̛̟̪͑̎͛͆͐̈̈̄̿̄̂̀̂̀͑͘d̵̨̢̢͇̺͙̝͓̭̝͖̗͕͖͇͔̹̭̻̮̜͈̂̅̓̿͊͂̀̇̊̽̀s̵̡̛͚̬̱̣͍̻̒̐̔̀́̑̌̊͂͊́͌̚͘͜͝ ̷̟̝͙̼̘̫͖̘͂̅͘ͅư̸̢̨̛̛̥̯̯͈̠̝͎̯̼̻͚̭͙̰̮͍̠̳͓̾̽̈́̈́̈́͗̈́̔̽̈́̈́̆̇̇̒̉̀̊̕͜͝ͅp̸̨͖̩͇̙̅́̐̔͛ͅ ̵̬͓̼̗̣̠̤́́̋̄̉̈́ķ̵̢̤͔̙͖̖̺̘̮̣͈̙̼̭̋̈́͋͐̑̒͂̈́̇̓̂̐̔̓̾͊͜į̶̘̌̀̈̏́̋̈́̇̂̌͆̊̅̎̽̀̏̓͆̚l̵̢̨̢̧̤̟̠̱̲̣̣̘̫̯̥͖̖̓̚͜ͅl̸̖̟͙͙̙̮̑̌͗͊̉̋̍̅̽̉͂̌͘͘͝i̵̢̧̢͍̗͔̻͖̮̹̩̤̰̻̪̱̠͇̖̮͚͓͂̄̆̎̂̌̆̾͛̆̈͛͑̇͌̈́͒̎̍̽̃͜͠͝n̵̡̡̝̱̩̬̪͕̦̘͇̠͈͙̜̟̻͉̏̿̂́͗́͛̿̂́̀̑̍̈́͗̈̾̈͋̈́̈͆͘ġ̶̛͔̜̜̃̊̽̆̾̌̑̑̾̀͆̓̈̓̍́̐̅͊̊ ̶͉̼͇̯̜̰̒͐̅͑͂̓̔͛̑́̆͌̿̄̃̒̽͒̅͠h̴̢̡̡̼̟̳̜̘͖͍̬̐̆͑͒̀́̉͂̈́̋̀̇̿͋ỉ̶̥̗̹͉̌̽̈́͐̾́̈́̾̚͝m̵͈̆̉̾̒̊̅̊̓́̒̃͛̌̃́́͆̔̕̕̕ ̷̻̜̪̜͍͚̳̭̲̩͓͕͍̰̝̃͑̔́̌͗͛̌́̌̈̎̀̈́̍͑͆͜͝t̵̢̨͎̙̹̯̤͓̰̣͍͙́͒o̴̢̢͔̥͎͕̩̜̰͚̗͇̟̗̗̎̌́̆̔̿̀̾̇́̈́̕̕͘͘o̸̻̎͂͛̃́͛̈́͆̊̆͐͘͠͠,̸̢̢̪̤̺͎͕̳̖̓̑͒̊̐̂ͅ ̷̛̩̱̟̲͔͙̖͎̖͖͔̖̝̞̾̈́͋͊̿̓͆̓͝b̷̢̡̛̯͇͈̹̠͚̭̯͖̬̬̺̰̗̬̱͉̔͒̽́̅͂̉̄̇͋̈͘͝ͅe̸̡̪̪̹̜̬͉͖̥͍͓͙̯̱͖͍̯͓̘͐͐̎͌̚c̵̛͉͗̉̏̉́̃͂̉͘͘á̸̪̬̩̮͈̰͍̐̃̈́͐͑̀͊̈́̈́̍͠ů̶̧̗̞̬̰̘̣͉͕̹̭̤̟̖̘͙͎̫̺͓͕̾̐͜s̷̢̝̲͍͙̪͎̙͕̥̹̞̟̖̭̟͛̈͑͛͐̎̑̂̑̈́̆̈́̕͘͜͠ͅͅę̶̢̹̝̻͓̩̹̳̪̣͍͎͕̥̱̰͖̥̦̊̐̿̋̃̂̽̎̂̑̃̔̀̚͝͠ͅ ̶̛̺͇̟̪͝ḧ̶̛̙̙́̾͑̀͐͒̄̑̒̊̐̈́̽̒̉͝ę̸̨̨̤̲͚͎̮̠̗̙̪̖͇̠͇̻̼̥̥̀́͆̓̓̒̅̕͝ ̵̨̡͎̟̯̝̤̹͖̤̅̏̊̇̌̅̕͠͠w̷̬͒̆͐͛̽̄̏̐̉́̌̆̉́̔̇̿ö̴̢͕̯̼́́́͛̇͂͜u̷̹̖͆͗͝͝l̷̛͎̗͕̪͂̀̽̒̐̀͋̏̀̇͛͗̀̇̈́̾̐̃̌̕̚͠d̸͈͉̮̬̃͌̄͒̍̉́͘͠͠n̴̺͚̮̠͖̩̻͓͎̤̲̺̅̓͑͋͗̃̈͌̂͊͑͑̈́́͑̕͜ͅ'̸̨̡̯̠̗̺̘͚̳͔͇̲̙͓͊́͜ţ̴̡̧̡̧̛̼̻̬̦͔̦̦̠͔̪̓̏͛̀͗̊͆̉̈́́̇̀̿̓͆͌̀̅̕̚͜ ̵̠͈̹̮̮̀͆̎͊͌ͅḉ̷͉̗̗̤̗̤͗̋̄̅͋r̵̡̨̥͎̦̼̟̮̘̰͍͎̗̩̠̦̙̺̩̬̮̪͗̿͛͊̓̀̇͋̆͑͋̌͂́͌͆̀̍͘͘͜͝͠͠y̶̛̭͎̖̰̻̪͎͋̇̕͠ ̷̡̧͉̪̯̫̪͖̙̬̦̑͛͋i̶̡̛̫͈̪͋͛͛̔̾̉̊̈́̆͝f̵̡̛̹̟̪̣̩̗̬̥͔̮̘̲̝̟͇̖́̅̀͗̈́̈́̏́͛̐̋́̒̅̀͘̕͘͝͝ ̴̨̖͓̪͓̩̯͔̪̹͖̞̗̻̰̓̓̀͂͗͋̉̾͒̃͐͐͒̍͝ͅï̷͖̜͉̭͙̗͚̊̅̐̿͆̀̋̂͆͊͋̇͂̀̔́̉̚͘͝ͅț̷̗̬̺͍͍͔̠̙̘̦̥̼̺͇̈́̇̅͒̅̊̽̊̀̓͗̈́̉̌̌̽͑̆͘̕̚̕͜ ̴̧̢̨̮͊́͂̏̓̒͌̅̾̄̋̆͂̃̕͝ẘ̸̡̦̬̘̺̼̺̰̙͍̗͕̘̗͚͖̻͔̼̯̔͗̊̾͑̅̐͂͊͗́͋͒̊͗̄̄̕͝a̵̡̨̛̛͉̤̱̳͇̪̹̼̩̙̘̮̩͓͍̟͌̔͗͗̍̈́̊͆̍̒͆͆͋̍̑̆s̵̭͖̭̥͌̓̑͑́̽͑̾̄̀̆̏̌̑̏͆̎͛̐̈̒͋ ̸̛̥͓͈̭̀̓̅͋̔̾̄̈̈́̍͘͠͝S̵̢̻͖̖͈̳͇̜̝̾̌ͅy̵̧͉̯̙̱̟̘͇̺̫͚͉̎͒̽͗͐͊̍͛̈́̍͋̈́̾̾̽̈̒̍̋͜ļ̷̣̮̺͚̖͚̠͇̣͓̭̫̫̏̓͑̐͛̓͒̿̍̌̚͝v̷̺͙̔̽͊̓̀̔a̵̰̬͋̀̆̃̍̀̈̕͠͝͝i̸̮̤͙̫̫͉̺͔̹̠̐̈́̉͜n̶̯͍̻̪̞̈́̾́̌̌͋͒͊̐͗̔̄̔͝͠ͅ ̶̨̤͎̝̟̗̙̠̙̬̝͙͇̟̩̙̣͔͊̅͋̿͗̿̿̾̃͑͝t̴̢̟́̔̓̈́̍̈́͘͜͠h̶̨̢̘̮̝͙̘̜̙̠͚͙͇̻̠͎͐̇̂͜ͅę̷̥̣̹̯͕͉̮̳̞̿̋͐̈́̓̈ͅ ̵̨̨̖̪̪̳̩͍̫̻̼̱̳̠̂̍͒ö̵̢̳͎́͐͋̈́̿͒͐̒̂̀̔͊̎̋͐̒͛̕͠ṅ̷̨̜͎̪̦̲̙̓̎̈̐̋̃̀͌̃̿̄̐̋̅̓͒̾̒̈͗ͅe̴͍̹̫̜̰̓̐̓͊̔̎̋͒̀͌͋̚͝͝ ̶̨̨̡͍͙̥̥͕̙̰̥̯̠̪̝̳͙̟͊̐̇̃͊͠ͅk̵̰̦͇̖̖͕̩͍̯͖̫̦̖̯̘̳̦͈͓͍̞̘̭̈́̓̓͊̏̏͐͒̏̽̈́̿̈̈́͒̿͊̌͠í̷̡̨͓̗̗̰̹̦͉̜͚̟̖͓̟̜͍̥̣̱̳͔̋͊̽̽̈́̓̓͒̉͗̈̓̚͘͝c̸̣̬̘̩̲̖̺͓̱̰͑̓͌͝k̷̡̧̬͙͎͈̻̜͇̩̜̟̊̐̂́̓̓̐̈͛́̉̏͐̌̊̐̒̒̋͝͝ͅí̷̗͇̩͈̘̍̇ņ̸̭͎̭̪͕͙͉͊͋͛͑̍͌͆̇͂͑͊͌͘͝͝ḡ̷̛͙̜̳͈̼̻̞̟̮̺͈̮̩̟̗̻̃͊̈́̍̒͜͜ ̶̗̻̼̼̬͈̺͚̤͙̝͇̻̳̘͊͛̒̄̂̋̋͋ͅͅt̶̨̻̖̯̱̭̝̯̰̲̞̳̘̪͚̦̗̭̜͙͇̣͉̀̉͛̒̇́̊̿̊̒̋͌̿́͐͒͠͝h̶̦͐͋̂̍̈́̂͐͐̾̀͑̏͌̏̍̽̀̔̈́̚͠͝e̸̗̅̎̉̒̄̃̈́͂̀͐͗̆̓̐̉̅̋͂̄̚̕̕͝ ̶̧̜͚̗̪͍̻̬͇̰̻̖̥͍̅̌ͅb̵̡̧͈̭̱̼̥̞̼̙̩͚̗͕͙̻͕̦̬̪͈̮̓̋̂͛̀̂͘͝͝u̴̡̧̦̳̬̠̮̻̠͎̖̙̮̬͍̇̏͗̒̉̎̌͐̈́̀̂̓͌͛̋̚͝ć̷̼͕́̔̿́͆̍̃̿̀̍͠͝ḱ̵̡̹̪͈̣̜̟̼̝̣͇̙͊͜ê̴͖̹͚̥̼̈́̃t̷̡̨̢͚͕͓̜̼̼̜̺͙͊̆͐̂̊̄͊̚͝ͅ,̸̢̫̔͆͂̐̚ ̷̡͉̟͙̰̩̹̖͌̀̆̔̔̃́w̵̨̖̠̼̭̓͆͆̿̔̈́̓̄͂̀̚͝͝ơ̶̖̲̼̘͎͇͙̬͈̤̩̏͋̽͊́̀͌͐͗̈́̚̚͠͝͠u̸̜͈͕̬͉̖̦̪̲̥̍͋͒́ͅl̶͈̤̩͙̪̹̺̀͑̌̍͂́̊͗͂̀̀́̈̆͛͑̑͘̕̕͠͝d̸͕̝̥̬̤̖͇͖̘͓͈͓͔̫̼̼̐̋͋̓͋͜ ̴̨͓̩̞̯͕̮͖͍̘̜̼͖̗͍̮̳̪͍̿̀̌̒͜h̷̛͉̤̝̻͕͖̙̞̘̠̰͍͇̾́̏̓͌̊͑̍̈́͑̑̚ę̶̛̦̰͖͍͓͖͈͕̹̈́̑͗͑̔̉̉̋̏̓̐́͐̋͜͠?̷̛̭̭̞̦̼̞̜̘̙̝͕̬̙̣̥͛̊́̅͗̈́͆̽̕͜͝͝ ̵̗̤̻̥̹͍͚͉͈̰̮͉̰̒́́̆̃̄̄͆͛̇̇̋̎͛̅͂̉̈́̔̕͠H̷̜̰̲̘͂̅̓́̇̋̄̐̾̀e̴͔̩̪̘̖̖͇͗̍̂̚ ̵̢̺̥̇̿̋̽͘͜ų̷̨̢̨̼͔̗̟̜̟̦̣̫͎͈̲̦͎͓͓͈͒̍̏̓̚ͅͅs̵̨̧̡͉̣̪̘̤͍͓̯͎̪̦͎̪͓͈̱̾̔͗͊̓̆̀̒̃̅̚͠ė̴̡̯̺̯̻̝̺̣̗̰̻̰̮̻͕̩̜̤̪͚̜͋̎̈́͂̓̅̂̂̐̎͛̾́͑̄̆̕͘͝s̸̲͑̋̐͊̎̇̀̉͌̓͆͆̽̚͝ ̵̡̧̛̟̫͕̰̝̟̬̜̦͈̦̩͖̠̘̣͗͆͆́́̾͜ͅt̵̨̝͈͕̗̖͎̬̻̗̞́̀͑̈́̑͊̄̉͛̓̕̕̚͝͠ḧ̵̨̧̧̲̬̦̼͉͎̖̖̝̫̲̖́̊͋̈́̾̈́͜ȇ̸̛̦͔̬̲̮̫͙̰̘̣̓̾͛͌̂̀̈̇͂̍͋̈́̑̽ ̴̲̓͆̑̔͗̇͂̔̉̐̀̈́̽̿̂̂̆̇̔̀̅͘͝p̵̧̛̜̪͖̳͚͙̰̯̮̙̺̎͒͊̉̇̑̓̈̎͊̌́́̇̕͠r̵̡̢̧̳͖͓͉͔͙̞͇̻̱͈͑̉̀͜o̵̢͔̗͇͍̫̼͇̣͇̬͎̓͊̽̓̄̄̕͜f̵̢̙͈̤͚̞͙̝͓͍̳͉͎̤̤̘̼̹̘̼̝́͋̐̈́̿̔̂̏̈́͊̊͛̎̚͝e̴̩̳̫̤͕͛ş̸̢̢͔̗͔̻̼̬̣͖̩͔͖͎͇̳̯͕̇͂́́́͑̽́̀̿͌͘͘͠͝ͅs̷̡̪̝̰͉̱̣̹̦̥̦͚͕̮̜͉̊͐o̵̻͙̠̱͆́̈͂̀̐́̕͠ͅr̴̤̭̱̤̋̓̀̊̊̈́͛̓̑̍͌̍̇͊̋́̃̏̃̕͘͠͝'̴̢̛̫̱̭̙̙̱̰̞̟͎̖̗̩͚̣̂ş̶̛̜̻̖̺̭͚͈͕̱̰̳̜̘̰͕̮͉̖̬̈́̒̌̊̽͛͑̚͜͝͝ ̶̡͍̦̬͈̩̣̫́̈̇̿͐͐̊͜͝ḑ̶̦̤͎̙͔͓̘̹̯̤̮̭̱̖͕̰͚̥̭̩̓͆̈͐̆̋̈́̇̌̃̄͌̐͆̉̐͊͘̚͜͠͝a̵̧̡̛̬̳̪̱̼̬͉͕͖͇̣͕͖̲͍͈̗̽͂͂̽͛́͊́͊͆̓̇̓͑͗̓̕̚͝g̵̡̢̡̛̮̟͇̤̥̻̻̞͇͙͇̺̮̙͍̮͍̭͇̱̈̏͋̓̀́͋͋͑̎́̾̚͘͝g̷̛̲̹̱͛̄̅̆́̑̉͗͂̎̇̓͂̑̕̚͜ͅë̶͓͈̘͔̮̝̝̘̙̤̭̰́̌̂̓̽̈́͂̇͛̍̀̽̀̂͌̃̈́̍̓̾̉̚͠r̶̪̟͈̪̺̳̬͎͍͔͆͒̓͐͌́͗̔̑̀͑͐̾̏̔͌̄̄͋͋̈͗͠.̸̨̡̖̲͍̞̳̳̤͇͈̦̺̝̬̲̻̠́͑͐̒ ̴̡̨̡̡̗̟̲͙̤̹͎̦̪̌̃̇͠H̸̢̬̤̲̦͈͖͓͚͎̼̞̰̮͙̺̄̀́̓̀̏̃̔̽̀̉̑͝e̸̢̛̙͙̝͇̗͎̘͉̩̬̘̺̝̫̠̘̣̼͔̟̽́̄̓́͒͘͜͠ͅ ̶̧̧̛̟̪͉̘̩͖̺̤̝͓̟̩͈͉̃͒͆̀̉̽̓̄̔̊͐͘͜͠͠͝ͅt̵̡̧̡̨̗̦͖͕͉͍͇̯̬̱͎̠͗̀͗̀͒͌̓́̃͐͌̈́̈͘̕͠͠͝r̴̢̛͎̞̙̹̗͎̣̝̭̮͐̋̉́̈̿̓̀̀̍̌̀̈́͘ͅͅì̶̢̢̱̜̭̞̘̮̦̬̼̯̙͙̤̮͚̔̎̀̀̓̓́̎̆͘̕͘͘͝ȩ̷̢̡͍̞͚̯̹̐͆̍͗̑̅̀̌͌̉̇̾̔̆ś̵̡͇̋̃͐ ̸̹̣̗͉͔͈̙̖̬͓͖͎͚̉̅̋̉̊͊̍̿̊ǹ̵̢̲͚͈͍̬͎̜͍̥̮͊̇̊͐̈̿̀́̽́͆̾̄̅̆͜͜ͅo̸̡̳̭̼͖̻̙̯͋t̶̛̛̠̞̻̫͎̞͉͈̟̮̗̼̥̪̜͙̲̩̳̻̫̀̽̐ͅͅ 

̸̡̡̡̡̧̢̛̛̹̗̙̱͇̙̫̲̣̠̪̻͙͙̀̓͛͒̾̾̈̑͌͋̃̃̈́͘ͅm̸͕̩̥̺͇̙̦̥̜̤̱̠̯̭̤̿̍̅͛̇̎͊̎͗̀̽͂͂̋̊͘͘ͅͅa̵̧̡͉̝̪̖̺̗̭͚̭̝͈̙͕͔͉͊̀͌̇̏̿̀̎̋̿͛͛́̎̾͗̾̕͜͝k̵̢̧̡̛͍̙̜̙̠̱͙̪̪̥̖̗͙͖̹̾͊̀̈́́̅̇́͛͆͐̋́͜͝ͅͅȩ̷̠̖͓̉͘͜ ̸̝̼͖͈̼̰͍̓͛̊̑̀̃̇͐̋̑̏͒̂̉͘͝h̶̛̛̰̦̻͔̔į̸̱͔̯͕̲͈̪͇̩̯͔͓̯̞͔̣̇͊͒̊̆͊́͗́̀́̒̓̃͗̈́̓̓̉̎̚͝m̴̛͚͉̘̝̰̲͔̲̬̮͚͖̫̣̱̒̉̿̀̕͜ ̸̢̛̟͎̯̯̦̻̰͙̜͉̹̹̒͆̂̈́͗́̂̀͊̂͗ͅs̸̡͓̣̻̫̟͉̩̩͚̬͕̙̪͛̾͌̋͗̇̓̂̊͋͂͘̚ͅu̴̺̅̓̌́̋̎̆̓͊̒̿͑̈̐̃̿̊̊̚̚̚͠f̸̀͛̈́̿͆̒̈́̉͂͌͗͊ͅf̷̗͙̝̮͉̯̥̟̗̮̗̟̫̣̳̹̹̞̙̤͈͋͆͐̌̄́͑̑͛̑̌̃̌͂͑̓̄̕̚̚ͅe̵͚̻͚̪̜̫̮͇͉̟̰͔͓̹̰͎̱̯̓̄͊̑̓̋̓̎̉́̐̑͒̅͒̉͘ŕ̸͇̮̞̞̉̀̆͂̅͊́̿̀̆̔̉̃̇͊͒̍͘͘͘͘͠ ̴̨̛̹̩͚̮͕̺̱͛̂͋͐̀̉̄͌̂̈̏͐̐̍̿͛̋͋͘ṭ̴̨̢̢͈̣̦͕̝͕͔̦̯͙̻̫̟̯̥̝̐̄͋̋̈́̓̓̑̍̂̈̓͒̅͐̀̍̕͜͜͝͝ơ̷̢̨̧̫̗̮͈͉̮͖̺̗̖̙͇̪̝̄̓̋̾̈́̄̌̉̏̋́̕͘ͅö̸̟̳̻̙̯̙̝̤͚́̂̊̑̍̑͂͛̈́͆̿̓̍̅͋̈́͝͝͝ ̶̡͚͕͖̤͖̥͇̮̜͚̗̦̣̜̦̺̰̪̜͉̞́̈́͂͑̔́̉̓̎̉̐̉̔̀̅͋͐̾̈̕͝͝m̸̡̡̢̢̼̰̹̥̫̝̳̠̪̬͉̩̹̙̈́̉̿̋̃͌̾̈́͐̌̒͜ͅū̶̧͕̝̳̭̩̝̤̉̀̀͝ç̸̧̰̯͎̥̖͍͖͍̞͕̤̜̲̲͓̯̜̥̾̑̃̃̐̓́̃̀͐̍h̴̢̧̟̗̭̹̖̗̅͂̌͝,̴̧̪̟̟̩̭̤̯͍̰̦͉̽́̅͑̎̊̇̽̓̿̀̑̃̿ ̷̡̢͕̗̝̖̩̳̘̫͒̎͛̒̊̉̌͆̋̓̚ͅt̵̢̳͚͎̩̦͖̺̤͇͔͇̦̭̣̤̙̪̲̹̬̠͆͌̓̓̿̈́̀̀̍̉̈̀̀̔͘r̵̢̙̳̞̱̬̳̗̫͇͔̰̲͖͇̖͖̱̮̹̅͆̓̋̋͛̋̓̏͛͋̕͘͝i̷͍̩͈͓̫̩̣̙͇͙̮̎́͒͗̄̀͋͘ͅͅȩ̵̛̬̺̳͉̤̘͉̣̇̄̀͑̆̎͐̾͗́͗̌̏͗̄͆̃̎̊͜͝s̵̡̙̜̜̝̖̳̗̪̭̮̼̑̄́͒̐̏̓͂̐͆̀̃̐͂̆̾͋́̊̄̚͘͝ͅͅ ̵̢͖̬̣̩͕̘̉͗̏̎̌̿̔̉̇͐̇͘͜ͅt̷̲̠̍̂̽͐͒̑͗͒̿̅͠͝͠o̸̡̨͈̭͓͖̱̰̙̝̗̝̞̠̙͐́̓̊̌̒ͅͅ ̸̮͑̽ṣ̵̢͉̬̟̬̞͇͙̩̮͚̯̮̰̺̮̰͙͉̄͐̈͒̈́̾̏͋͝͠ǫ̶̢̨̼̞̮̱̖͈͚͖̯̲̩̻̻̥͚͍̟̠́̈́̊̔̏̂̒͌͘ͅơ̵̢̡̛͓̫̼̗͖̩̪̣͍̳̼̗̍̎͂͊͒̃͂͗̕̕͜͝ͅt̵̨̧̡̛̳̙̹͖̳̣̙̠͎͇͊͑̊̇̃̀͂̎͗̌́̆͐͝ẖ̵̡̨̛̫̩̫̦̻̟̻̀̔̄̀̈́̾͊́̎̓̿̾̀̈́̏̐̃̂̒̔̎̕ȩ̷̨̞͈̲̲̜̮̹̝̙͎̥̗̂̈͒͋̋͊̂͐̎̀̈́̊́̀͂̄̅͜͝͠ͅ ̵̨̥̟̖̈́̽̑̐̄̊͒̊̍͘͝ḩ̶̛̦͔̲̟́̃̄̇̋͌̓̾̅͌̚̚͝ỉ̴̢̞̞̹̲̬̣̦̰̬̪̜̉͜m̶̡̝͕͇̻̞̥̬͔̳͙͖̼͈̻̻̘̪͉͚͊̒̎͗̐͆͆̊͋̎̈́̏͜͝ͅͅ ̷̨̡̬͈͉̤͓̤̦̺̻͓͍̖͑̒͆̐́̄̐̆͐̊͛̓͂̎̄̊͒͗͜ͅā̸̧̼͙̥͕̳̟͚̠̓̔̋ǹ̴̢̨͙̫̭̞͉̜̬̮̹̮̹̼́̉͒̿͋̚d̵̲͇̪̩̟̙̪͈͒͂̔͛̀͐̏͊̈́͝ ̸̡̣̩̪̫͓̹̙̰̈̓͌̄̎̈̎̍̒̀̕͘͝͝w̸̢̨̪͕̯̗͖̥̖̯̥̝̫̎̂̈͋̀͂̅͂̔̅͘͘̚h̷͇̭̓̎̍̊́̆̊̽̈͑i̵̹̖͈̫̺̗̘̝̯̱̰̋̈́̑́͌̂̆̐̚̚͘ŝ̸͈̦̐̿̓̉͒͊̉́̄̓́̕̕̕͜͝͝p̶̢̢͉̣̬̱͉͈̼̞͓̱̤͇̬̍͐͐̐̐̚̚ͅͅḙ̶̗̬͕͎͙̲͔̰͍̔͠͠͝ͅͅr̸̨̨̢̛͈̤̟̱͔̲̳̣̦̙̓̀̀́̅̽̂̀̏͊̃́̏̋̇ ̴̢̢̘̲͖͍͙̹̳̦̄t̶̨̢̰̱̠̲̜̥̲̠͖̤͖͊̀̄̄͒̍̑̇̃͘h̶̢̭̣̥̠͕͚͎̲̳͈̉̏͌́͑̉́̒̎̀̚̕͠ą̶̛͈͇̮̦̻̖͓̻̝̖̜̦͇̻̮̗̋̽̓̓̓͛̒̉̽͑t̵̨̧̲̞̜̠̩̦̎̽̏͒́̀̿ ̸̗̯̼̻̿͋̈̆̌̊̉͂̀̋̏̔̀̈́̒̀̕i̴̡̨̢̛̘̬̖͎͇̲͔̬̘͇̝͍̘̿̽͐̃̽̀̀̐̌͆̋́͂̄̎̒̄͘͝ͅt̷͓̲̱̱͙̦̣̦̙̺̓̉̄̿̓̓̉͝'̸̨̢͚̣͚͚̦͙͈̬͙̰̗́̓͗́̂͒͊͝ͅs̸̨̨̢̡̛̳͇̺̞̪̬̜̣̻̻̩̱̭̃̄͒͂͛̂͑̏̇͒̇̈̌̅̊̔̿̔̿̓ ̷̧̛͕͍̖̮̝͖̠͈̔͗̂̽̎̾̍̆̅̈́̆͒̾̈̚͘͝á̷̡̩͓͍̖̍̀̀̿̊̀͆͛͝l̵̡̧̬̰͍̘͔̼̇́̈́͌͝l̸̳̣̯̬̲͐̈̔̽̓̿̅̔́̿̈́̽̑̍̍͊͌̕͜ ̷̳̤͕͎̻̱̪̂̍̽̈́̈́̈́̎̆̈́̈́̽o̶̡̻̻̭͉̫̩͕͉̭̝͎͚̝̤̬͍͉̺̪̾̂̒͊̋̈̍̾͊̔̉͆̊ͅķ̴̝̻̪̟͇̙̬͈̪̝̮̲̻̏̓̀̈́̇̆̏̈́̃̋̓̋͋̈́͘͠͝a̵̧̧̤̙̗̫̩̙̫̩͇̲̤͌͂̓̾͊̓̀̽͌͒̊̅̾̽̋͘͝y̸̫̮̳͙͉̼͉̣͖͖͍̲̞̽̽͐̀͂̿̓̓̊͋͒̿͝͠ ̸̢̧̛̬̟̞̜̔̔͛̉̅͝a̸̡̧͕̻̦͈̪̥̰͍̫̳̗̲͉̰͍̺̟͗̿̇̃̈̋͜͜͜͜n̷̨̜̘͕̘͈̱̱̟̘͚̗͍̠̼̲̭̞̉̌̀̂͛͋͆͐̄̓̈́̕̚̚d̶̨̝̗̙̦̦̥̩͙̯̘͛͊̾̌̓̇̋͗̚ ̶͇̘̗̪̩̩͙̺͉͔̳̞̲͚̜̯̈̌̂͝ţ̶̛̼͎̯̱̘̗̣̖̻̠̞̔̋͂̃̓̿̋͆̇̀͌͊̀̊͒̌̆̈́́͋̐͘ͅh̸̡̧̢̡̪̼͕͓̩͇̗̫͎̼̺͈̃̈́͒̂̈̌̐̅́̒̈́̾͜ͅa̵̙͖̞̘̼̠̮̱̭̭̬̟̰̳̣̙̿̓͜t̶̥̼͇̭̗̼͔̱̞̟̦̮̏́̆̆̃͗̃̽̌̃̇̎͋̿͘͜͠ͅ ̷̫̗̥̳̘̫̞͈̯̹͂̎̍́̆̀̓͐ͅţ̷̛̹͔̗͋͗͐̍̀̉̃͆͠͝ĥ̴̛̟̰̯̱̟̦̭̦̺̼͍̻̄͒̓̌͌̎͐͒̈́͗̈́̏̆̀͗̈́̚͝͠ȩ̸̡̡̧̺͇̞̪͔̞̪͖̯̫͓̣̯̤̲̲͎̼̘͊̐͌̀̒̊̅̉͋̏̓͂̊̽̓̀͗́̊̕̕͠͠y̸̡̢̢͖̭͇̞̞̹̻̦̜̖̻̺̮̭͚̮̪͈͂͂͆́̈͘'̸̢̬͕̲̤̝̦͉͉̝͍͖͈̺̹̹̪̩̘́͛̽͐l̷͍̻̯̖̠̙̻̎̏̕ļ̸͇̬̖͔̼̗̮̠̰̠̩̩͕̘̠̮̮̩͂̒̈́͋̐͋̏̐̔̊̈̕͜ͅ ̶̨̨̡̢̟͔̥̦̭͓͕͕̖̫̼̻̻͇͓̰̠̱̇̏̎̆ͅb̴̢̢̡̙͕͍͖̟̜̱̙̻͎̩̻͍̣̫͛͜e̷̢͚̩͚̭̫̼̣̥̙͙̲̝̪̰͔̭̟͍̳͌͑͒̈́̾͋́̄̎̚͘̚͜ ̸̟̦͚̞͎̟̹̠̮̓͂̄̽͑̎̎̀̕̚ͅt̸̳̫̞͖̘͎̽͋͗̊̽̔͂͐̍͌͜͜ͅơ̸̢̨̡̧̯̦͕̖̘͓̞̣̱̺̱͕̔̓̈́̎̏̈́͛͒̋̎͘g̸̨̢̢̢̜͖̳͉̭̟͎͕͌̍͂̉͋̈́̏̉̔͑̃̀͜ę̴̨̯̝͚̹͈̗͎̥̼̖̙̻̝͖̮̠͙͎̗̺́̅̉͜͝ṭ̴̛̝̞̣̗͔̥̬͍̬͉̞̰͚̝̹͍̥̇͐̃̽͒͗̃̉͛͒͛̄̒͘͝h̷̛̛̫̟̗̖̗̭͒̽̃̈̅̒̾͘͘è̸̢̡̲̬͈̳̘͕͉̟̰̩̯̼̰̥̦̣̍̇̑͂̑̽͘͠͝ͅͅr̵͖͕̟͍̠͙̜̰̮͕̻̱̭͈̗͓͔̣̳̥̋̌̒̓̈́̐̊̈́͛͒̎͊͒̐̄̕͠ͅ ̴̛̝̜̮̲̘̝̗͉̮̥̫͔̞͓̫̥̺͖̬̪͓͇̑̈͌̊̒́̆̇͊͘̚̚͝ͅs̷̢̧̛̖̤̯̬͔̗̠̲͉̮͙̦̫͓͇̦̗̻̖̓́̉̔͊̑̏̊͊́͆̍͑̐͠õ̸̧͎̭̥̞̠̹̣͍̏̓̽͋̔̓́̎̋̅̋͑̀̒́̔̌̑͘͠͝ǫ̵̨̳͙͖͉̼̯̝̳̦̰̘̻͎͕͎̘͉̞̳̋̓̈́͒̃͐ͅn̶̢̧͙͙͓̳͔̰̗͕͑̈́͌̀̈́͒͛̄̎̌̏̿͋̍.̴̭̠̼̪̘̘̜̦̘̑͆̈́̿̅͆̑̋̒̚͘͠͠ ̶͇͈̯̜̥͔̳͙̠̫͚̤̬̻̙̯̺̰̋̈́ͅ

̶̨͕̘̩͈̠͎̾̈́͐͗̒̔̄͛̀͒̋̎́̈́́̀̍͊͝͝͠Ḫ̷̡̧̼͙̼̱̣̤̭̲͛͌͋̐͑̓͑̃͜͝͝͝ę̵͖͉͈͎̹̬̣̲͙̝͗̋̈́̀͆̿́ ̷̢̛̱̠̱͎̳̹̠̙͙̖̜̞̲͇̰̯̠̋͂͗͂̐̂̈̃̇̈͑̓͌̍̓͌͊̕͠͝t̸̢̥̪̳̲̝̺̜̞̮͐̊̑͂̌̏̅̅̓̚̚͝ȃ̷̢̹͙͇̙͕͍̹͔̳́̎̑͜͝ͅk̵̥͔̹̬͚̳̿͊͗̓͆̐̀͐̀͗̈̑̚͝è̴̬͙̙̬̺̏̓̂̈́͂̈́̒̔̇̑̆̓͐̽̓̇̂̚͘̕͘͠ͅṣ̴̢̼͖̫̻̥̤̲̣̦͓̜͚̦͍̠̼̹̩͇͑͒̅͜ͅ ̷̛̬͎̻̪̮̺̟͍̳͉͐͗̈̐̽̄̉̈́́̔͊̊͑͒͑͐̿͐̊̔̅̚ͅB̶̧̛͉̜̖͉̗̼̳͈̻̙̟̖͔̘̰͈̫͖̝̩́̍͛́̏͊͐̃y̷̻̯͐̇̀̚͠͠͠l̵̦̦̣̩̖̑̋̈́ȩ̴̢͓͔̯̠̥̬̲͇̙͔͙͔͉̙̝͙̗͇̣̜̏͑̒̑̌̋̈́́̑̾̽͋̀͠ͅt̷̡̻̝̭̅̏̉̆͂́͐͌͌̊͑̎̈́̕̕̚̚͠͝͝͠͝͝ḥ̵̘̘͈̪̜̈́́̈̍̎̀̒̋͐̈́̉͊͐͛̀̔̂̚͘̚'̶̡̨̛̝̥̦̺͓̳̼̜͙̟̱̬̯̭̯̰̹̫̑̋͌̅̍̀̓͗̇̒̋͊́̎̋̓̕͠ͅs̷̢̝͉̱̹̭̘̲͍͓̦̭̬̃̉̋͊̆́̓̚͜ ̵̨̩̱͕̺̰̲̂̀͑̐̐͂̒̀̀̌͛̈́̇̐̕̚͘͠c̵̨͖̙͖̼͆̂͋̇̑̒̍̾̈́̈̚̕o̸̭̞͕̭̰̳̬̞̟̳͙̾͂̄̍̄̑̾̄͌̊̋͗̒̚ͅr̶̹̥̫̖̖̝̫͍̖̝̀͗̉̏̊̂̑͜ͅp̸̧̡̛̲̳̲̹̳̗̘̈͂̋̇̿̉̊̉̀͊́͂͘s̷͈͈̺̑͜ë̴̲̦̯̜̤̞̺̣͚̟̹̦̙̳̣̾̋̍͑͒͆̌̍̆̋͆͜͠͝ ̶̡̧̣̣̯̥̦͖͉͕̯̬͙͈̯̠͙̙͇̙͚̖̩̿̎̑̉́͒̅̊̓́̓̈̽t̵̢̧̞̬̼̰̫̳͎̤͉̺̩͙̎̑̔̎o̵̬̰̘̠͐̅̇̒̏̈́̒̍́͒̓͐̒̈́̋́̑͝͠ ̶̼̺̣̜̟̇͗̆̔̊̌̋͋̅́͒̆́̀̔̕̚͠͝͝h̵̡̡̗̖̦̭̦̩̫͙̮̠͙͙͇̫͍͗̅̾ͅį̶̺̌͌͒͆̿̓̚͘ş̴̢̛̥̘̮̘͚̝̖̘̠̫̯͈̝̀̄̈́̈́̎̃͌̅̾̍̔͂͋̿́̋̽̀͜͝͠ͅͅ ̷̖̳̻̤̫̪̱̩͓̐̈́̔̃͗͊̍͗͘͜͜͜͝r̷̭̰̖̬͓̫͍̝̝͇̥͈̮̜̜̙̞̿͊̀͋̄͋͗̃̏̈͐̍̌͌͋̌̕͘̚͝͝͠ͅo̶̭̖̩̥̪̘̱̟͑̊͊̀̆̀͋ỏ̸̠̝́͐̆͒m̴̻̜͎̄̇̉̏̎̓͐͋͂̒̓̍͊̂̄̕͜͜͝͝ ̸̡͈̠̰̩̙̣͕̻̞̘͕͎͕͙̦̗̇͂͊̈́̍̓̄a̷̛̮̳̮͇͒͂̀̐͜ͅn̶̰̝̺͖͠d̶̢̢̫͙̹̫͕͕̩̩̠̘̟̐͑͂̀̇̏̋̇̄̈́͘̕͘͝ͅ ̵̢̨̢̹͕͕̦̦͔̘̠̤͕̥̔́͒̽̍̌̓̌̋͒̅̈̈́͠ͅk̴̡͚̪͎̜̖̤͆̑̌̅̊̏̽́̌͘̚͜͝e̵̢͈̖̱͔̖͓͓̬̼͓͓̮̖̗̦̘̪̠̜̣̰̫͌̎͗̄̌͂̉̀̀̐̓̚̕̚͝ę̶̭̣̬̅̈͌̎̓̐̓̊̒͠p̴̧̣͍͔̝͙̣̝̳̖̮͓̗͍̳͚̿́̈̍͒̅́̓̐́͋̕ͅs̶̨̧̯̻̞̻̟̜͔͈̮̖͓̗̈́ ̷̧̧̹̗͍͍̩͖̱͚̙̇̿̓̆̐̓̊̋̒́͂͆͌̾h̸̛̛̥̺̠̬̀̏̐̈́̈́̄́̍͒͂̍̎̎͠͝͠͠i̵̟̙̜͖͖̖̣̫̪̠̼̯͍̻̟͚̫̖͙͂͂̾͑͊̀̿̉̅͆̈́́͗̓̃͗́́̚͜͝ͅm̸̘͙̫͚̠̙͍͓̣͆͊̌̏́̇̈̌͌̓͛̍̃̑͋̊͝͝͠ ̸̡̢̛̛̹̺͖̫̮̗͉̺̼̺̬̂̉̈́̔͛̾̽́̈́̄̊̈̀͑̂̇́̌̚ṯ̸̨̪̯͉̤̻̫͈̩̦͙̠̪̇̾̏͗̉̆́́̋̾̀̓̿̀̈̉̚͘͠ḣ̵͔̻͍͎̣̞̺̬̘͕͇̪̀͒̔̋̍̃̿̆̈́̑̔͗̈̈́̓͘͝͝ę̴̛̙̠̲̜̜̰̃̒̎̇̍́̈́͗͗̆̌͘͝ŗ̴̫̺̦̗̘͓͎̞͎̝͍͚͌͑̒̎̾͑̔̿͒͐͊̓͠e̸̙̻͇͎̻̼͔̳̱̱͍͋̔̓̔͌̓̌̈́͗̄͐̅͊̕̚͜͠͝͠͝ͅ,̴̡̢̨̧̛̥͇̦͔̩͖͈͔̙̼͍̱̖̩̻̟̐̂́̊͜ͅ ̸̗͍̪̻͈̫̓͋̌͋̍̿̍̐̂̕t̷̢̨̨͔̺͉̦͖͎͖̼͓̭̣͈̘̘͔̗̘̰̰̙̒͂̌ą̸̛͈͚̳̯͎̗̘̗̪̤̮̙͕̾͛̎́̓̿̌̔͌͐̇͗̓͘͘͝͝͝ľ̶̛͔̱̪̩̐̐̉̈́͐̄͑̅͊̅̆͛́̑͐͒̒̑̀͝k̵̡̢͇͕̳̝̠̱̯͎̞̭̫̙̱̩͕̟̩͇̬̣̋͊̈́̀͋̍́́̄̀̋̏̀͗͘͘͘̕͝s̸̡̢̢͖͓̺̖͓̼̺̩͖̭̭͇̜͓̪̝̓̈́̋̀͆̑͋̑̊̈́͆̆͆́̕͠͝͝ ̷̢̨̢̡̺̮̹̯̣̗͎̮̦̖̞͈̝̟̱͚̳̈́̈̕t̴̛̛̼̥͎͇͂̎͆̈̈́͋̓́̈́͌̂̈́͂̾͆̔̇͝͠͝ò̶̤̻̳̥͚͙̮̫̇̆̓ ̸̨̡̨̲͚̖̖̰͎͇̺̟̹̟̈̉͒̌̓̓̎͝͝͝͠ͅh̸̦͙̆̃̃i̴̡̛͕̺̭̻͗̾̉͐̏̂̍͗͑͗̊̒̓͐̀̃̈́̌̕̕̚m̵̡̨̧̗̘͉̪̹̣̥̙̪̯̘͓͙͎̙͌̎̔̑́͐̿̒͋̿͝ͅͅ ̸̨͕̮̾̽͆̂͒͋̇̿͑̌̈̑̂͒͐̀́͆e̴̡̝̰̰̫̰̲̗̮̣͎͗̿̾͋́͛̐̊̅̕͘̚v̸̡̢̲͕̝̤̹̼̝̜̬͗̍̀̌̃͐̓͘͘ĕ̴̻̬̻̥̦̼̘ͅr̵̝̻͉̠̱̹̤͕͈͗̇̀̀̕ÿ̶̢̫̪̤͎̦͛͘͘͜ ̷̢̧͖̯͕̳̥͕̹̺͇̝̬̰̦̤̻̪̥̙̪̔̀̆͋̒̀̕͜͝ḍ̵̞̼̉̽̑̍͛̄̊͂͑͝ͅa̵̢̡͉̗̯̫͈̱̮̻̹̖͇̘̳̮͉͉̯̪͎̔́͋̒͂͑̽̆̋͗̈̉͒̑͘͜͝y̸̼͒̓̾͌͊̒̅͋̊̎̾͒̑̈͊̇̿͐̕̚ ̴̱̮̥̪̲̼̹̌́̌͌̍̊̽͗͌̅̑̕̕͠͝͝ͅư̵̧̡͉̹͉̬͓͍͇͉̤͖͛̅͑̒͆̑̉̌̔͒̿̚n̴̡̢̺̝̳̟̫̬̰͖̝͉͆̐̎̾͋̽̄̑͂͗͝͠ͅt̵̲́̔̓̒̌̄̑͗͝͝į̶̥͖̬͙̩̯̀̀̋̒͑͛͋̀͑͑̉̎́͗͋̇̓̚͝l̶̨̛̰̺͙̻̻̖͈͎̪̠̗̙̗͚̠͓̥̙̦ͅ ̶̧̙̗̝͉̣́̈́͛̔̀̀̈́͒h̷̹̘͓̹͔̝̪̫̼̮̥̳̥̦̱̤̥̳͍̏̀̈́̅̈́̆ȩ̴̜̰̲̅̓̓̔͆̃̂̈́̕ ̶̡̛̟͇̥͎̮̖̪̯̺͈͔̭̻̘̺̘̝̬̤̫͗̈͌̎͗̏͛̾̌͂̊̄͗̾̄̾̾͆̚͜͝ş̸̨̻̺͍̗̖̞̯̙̳͓͇̥̖̗̈̀̓͌̐̽̓͊͐͌͊a̴͕͍̤̙͔͓̹̩̋͐̿̀͊̏̎͒͋̃̿̀̌͊̎͠ͅy̵̨̡̖̪̹̳̥̹͌̅̒́̾͂̉͐́͂̈́́̀͆̀̑̓͝s̶̗̜̱͈̦̻̝͍͕̮̈́́̓̒́̌̏̇̽͊͜͝ ̴̛̫̘͖̭̮̲͈̯̽̀̈́̂̽̋̇̓͑̚͝͝ͅę̵̡̯̱̭͓̥̪̰̫͈͎̹̬̮̎͆̆̈́͗͊̓́̈́̒̕͠͝v̶̢̧̢̧̛͕̝͓̪̹̤̞̰̪͙̰̦͔̗͍͎̜̞͍̅̀͗̒͐̈́̍̓̇͊̄̀͐͘͘͠e̶̫̾́̔̋̓͂̋͑͌̂̍͌̄̄̌̏̒̇̕͘ř̵̡̨͖̟̪̖͈͎̟͍̤͌̅̈́͒͒̐͜͜͠y̴̨͖̰͍͕̱̬̲̻̭̘͊͜t̸̨̡͔̺̠̠̺̜̞̪͈͕̎͋̀̀̉̾͐͑̓͋̇́̚̚͜͝ḧ̵͕̏̐̒̓̒i̷̧͙̦̯̲̙̤͖̽̋̑͗̈̈̈̀͌̈̑̇̐̕̕͠͝n̸̢̨̙̪̰̟̠̥͐͗̒́̀̍̏͜͝ͅg̸̢̲̩̭̘̩͖͉̱͓̰̥̳̗̝͓̮̖̯̼̠͛̓̿̌̉̏̏͌͗̑́͋͘͜͠ ̶̡̢̛̩͎̲͖͇̰̼͙̣̙̠̞̰͇̟̞̎͊͊͊͑͌̓̃̈́̈́͊̊̚̕̚͝͠h̶̡͈̹̬͈̝̳̤̠̳̰̠͛̇̒̋́͂͒̆̍̄̕͘̕̕͠͝ͅͅȅ̴̡̨̬̠̯͓͈̖̯̙͙̹͖̬̮̆̒̎͜'̷̨̐͂̌͌̓̋̂̀̍̓͒̽̋̌͛̈́̎̈́̄͋͗͗̇ş̶̧̮̳͇͍̤͙͙̩̬͍̱̗̦̠̭͉̯̓̈̈ͅͅ ̷̧͓̺͚͇͓̥̬̩̞̱̝̤̺̲̺͚̰̙̽͆̀̿̈̈́͛̏̉̄̉̎͜͝͠͠͠ͅė̷̝̲̒͋͌͒̈́̑̌͊̀̈́̾̏͗̽̏͐̾͜v̸̯̺̟͚̼͓̫̼̗͉͒̈́͗̀̍͐̓͑͐̈͂̎̌͛̐͐̎͜͝͠͝ȩ̵̢̧̧̩̝̻̻͙͔̮̥̤̀͑̃̉̃̅̕͝͝r̷̯͉͕͓̰̬̟̹̩͖̃͋̈́͒̎̃̈́͠͝ ̶̛̥̳̳̞̣̼̦̘̟̻̥͇̳̣̓̓̃̊́͑͑̎̑̂͆̆͆̊͒͒̚͠ͅw̸̯͈̔͐̃͑́̃̐̃̈́̔͊͘͝͝a̵͈͔͚̯̥̟͕̳̻͉̣̭̝̹̽̒͂n̵̤̯̫̻͎͊͆̎͊͌͆̌͛͐̈͜͝t̷̢̟̼͍̳̪̲̺̘̗̰̺̥̻̟̓̓́̉̿̐͒̉͊̓͗̃̕͘͘͜e̶̡̙͙̜̜͊͑͜d̷̡̡͙̯͙̩͕̻̟̙̰̜̪̝̻͙̹͚̩̭̂͒͋̍́̋ ̸̨̡̰̠̱̱̰̮̻̜̩̝̥̹̤̥̠̀̏̉̈́̍̌͂͂̉͠͝t̵̨̪̤̱͇̬̩͎̩̯͔̯̹͎̜̭̍̈́̽̆̅́͊̓͆͗͆͆͆̈́̾͐͛̀̋̀̄̕ơ̵̢͈͍̗̻͉̱͚͔͓͉̲̗̯̫̝̩̺̠̞̇͗͌̄̕ ̸̨̘͋̓͗̈́̾̆̋̆̀̀͊̈̆̊̿ͅs̷̮̟̳̙̀̍͋͗͜ą̷͙̺̝͈͚̼͍̳̦̘̰̥̟̗̠̤̩̹͚̥͙̐̈̅̒̈́̿̅͆̆͠ͅy̴̨̨͉̯̻̠̦̝͓͉̲̠̹͓̘͌̌̅̇̉͋͑̈́̓͛̔̀̆͋̈̒̇͌̂̂͜͜͠͝͝ͅ.̸̼̭̙̺͎̥̭͍̯̪̣̰͍̥̩̊̅̽̂̈́̓͂͐̀́̒̇̃̉̿̈́͛̍͗͠͝ͅͅ ̴̟̲̥̰̟͉̟̖̪͍͚̳̲̆̈́̈́̏͗̿̌͠ͅȚ̶̢̡̧̢̢̬͉͚̞͎̭̥͚̲̜̖͓̹͔̫̑͊̈̏̓͒͗̿̅̓̂̈̅̅̾̄̀̃̀̚h̴̠̞͎̹͈͚̗̠̊̇̈̓̂̉̈͆̄̍͆́̕è̷̢̼͉̫͈̟̣̩͕̰͕̼̪̞̜̘̘͓͍̈̀͑͑̇̃͒̀͆͆̂̍́̕͠͝n̵̛̹̫̲̞̹͍̜̲̬̫͙̅̽́͗̈́̎̈́̏̆͋̾͛́́̐̚̚ ̴̡̨̨̨̖͉̤̙̤̆̌̓̃̿̈́̀͂͊͗͗͑̇̇̔͗͝͠͠h̵̺̜̫͈͒̅̄̍͐̂̓̂̒͛̍͆͌͛̏̑͑͛̿́͝ȩ̶̢̡̣̝͉͎̤͙̳̤͚̗͈̇͋̈́̒̊̌͝ ̸̢̢̤͓̘̮̳̪̯̤͍̞̦̹͎͇̗͉̺̘̿̑̎̔͊̃̃͜͝ử̸̟͑̅̒̆̎̽̋͊̈́͌̄̈́̈́̊̄̌s̷̤̤̺̺͔̬̮̎̋͒̈́̃͛͗͝e̵̢̛̛̘̣̣͔̟͎̯̳͙̟͙̦̠͚̪̎̈̀͂̊̀̽͑̓̔̾̀̍̚͝͠s̸̫͚̰͈̹̀͗͂ ̸̡̨̠̲͈̮͙͖͉͎̱̙̊ţ̷͈̖̱̲͖͙̪͖̥̩̘̤̯̼̏̓̈́̇̓͘͝͝ͅȟ̷̛̛̠̀̋̃̓̃̋̓̾̂͛͒̔͐͌͠ę̴̨̧̟̫̭͚̖̟͚̤͔̖̞͎͈̦͖̗̤̳̈́̉̑̌̽̔̀̓́̏́̿͊͌͗͘̚̚͘͜͠ͅ ̴̨̨̢̬̺͕̗̟̬͉̦̼̳̫̞̮̣̫͍̇̀͑̄̄̾̅̽̒͂͂͆͝ͅş̷̨͙̯͉̓̂̊́̾͐̽̎͛̆̈͆̆́͜ͅā̴̧͙͇̞͎̻̠̻͉̼͉̠̘̾̊̀̃̆̅̑̌͜͠͝͝͝͝ͅm̷̛͉̩̼͇̭͚̹͍̯͕̠̳̮̥̗̋̽̈͑̂̌̇̇͊̌̊̉̿͗̅͘͜͜͝e̴̢̛͎͕̲̞̩͌̈̀ ̷̧̡͚̱̜̦͉̮̼̮͔̰͔̙̥̗̲́b̶̢̨̛̯̝̪͓͇̯̗̰͙̺͈̩̱̲̺̘̄̄̒̈́̋̌̀̂̑̑̊̾̈́̕͜͠͝͝l̴̢̨͓̠͖̼͓̜̮͊̀̊̔̈́̋͛̚͝ä̵̢̰̦̯͍͈͓͓͔͉͚̝̗̲͍͖͒͗ͅd̸̨̛̝͓̙͕̲̺̉͛̈́̃̊̽͆̂̑̿̓̕͘͘͝e̵̻̱͍͋͊͂͊̕̚̕̕ ̵̻͕̞̙͈̩̖̫͖̭̫̠͚̜̫̘͛̈́̏̒̈́̆͂̉̓͆̾̏̈̀͌͌̃̍͋̅̏̚͜h̶̨̘̱̙̎ͅȩ̴̧̫̼̱̜͙̦̲͕̥̥̝̘̫̞̟͖̹͚͆̒̀̆̈́̈̇̀̓͐̈̐ͅ ̶̨̧̨̠̭͔̙̥̯̹͚͕̘̞͙͍̟͓̍͐͋̑̾͆͛̎̈́k̷̡̧̡̝̘͈̰̗̳̫̙͖̰̝͓̀̂̈́͒̑͊͛̚͜ͅî̶̛̮̘͇̻̣͙̬̩̻̲͈̾͑̏̊̓̂͊́̎̔̅̀̉́̇l̶̨͇̲̹̘̼͕͚̦̒̔̉̅̎͋̔̈̔́̉̀̈̎̇̇͝l̶̡̧̢̢̠̱̦̱͚͔̖̩̤̼̞̼̖̈́̅̅̌̀̆̊̀̽̓̑͑̽̚͝͝ė̶̞̪̣͍̼́̈͊̿́̽͛̾̾́̉̊͝d̶̛̲̜͎̖̳͚͙̝͇̼̲̣͕̊̽́̏̉̅̊̔̚ͅ ̶̢̨͕͂̕͝ͅͅB̴̹̮̓̿̆̈͊̇̍̅͐̐̑̎̋̏̕̚̚͘ẙ̵̢̢͕̳̭̣̣̟͂̃̌͐̑͒̏̄̂͋̌́̿̈́̊͗͋͠l̵̛̜͈̮͖̲̤͚̲̥̳̪̳͍̭̙̆̃̿̓̈̀̐̍̽̓͜͝e̴̤̜̣͖͇̖͙̘̣̦̻̼̝͓͔͈̠͎̮̫̽̍̉́̌͒͋͜͝͝͝ͅͅţ̵̳͎̩̦̦̠̆̄̒͌͊̾͗̈́͐̓͝͠h̵̨̨̲̣̪͖̮͈̞͈̙̜͉͎͉͔̞͗͗́͗͜͜ͅͅ ̷̧̬̉̀̽̀̀͘ẅ̷̡̡̨̡̭̣͉̝̠͎͍̠̹͓͉̟͂̈́̎͆̀̐̆̑̍̄̔͑̊͂̉͗̀̽̾̕̚̚ͅḯ̸̡̛̻̝̖̪̣̫͖̈͊͐̊̂͘͝͠͠t̴̤͚̦̥̰͚͓͕̙̞͙̟̃̐͛̈̂̾̿̍̈̃̈̑̽̏͆̀̌͘͘͘͠h̵̨͉̲̜̪̜͍͎̬͚̝̗̜͙̰̠̠͓͔̜̣͙̝̊̿̿̐̈́͐̉̓̃̂̔̃͊́͠ ̴̢̢̻͉͈̮̰̺͓͎̭̼̩̬̲̲̥̯̣͖̟̄͒̑ẗ̷̡̤́͑̄̏ö̸̢̡̜̱̞̗̫͍̼͊̿̿͗́̃̎͘͘͝ ̸̛͕̥̞̯͍̄̇̈̇̓̊̓́͊̂̀͝s̸̢̻̦͕̜̹̭̉̈́͊̏̈̄̑͆͋̅̃̀̃̄͜l̶̨̡̛̞̣̬̥̙̞͕̟͇͉̯̻̯̱͕̘̣̻̘̭̽̎̀̈́̌͒̽̇̾̎̍͐͑̒͗̽͒͘͘͜͠ï̸̲̠̳̙͎̩͈͔̎̓̀͆͗̚͝͝t̶̨̟̦̲̖̗̙̠͓̩̭͓͕͎̣̮̹̣̖͗͑̏̉͗́̽̚͘͠ ̵̭̳͍̲̭͇͚̦̻̼͎̖̓̋̅̇͂̈̌̋͆̾͊̒̕͝h̷̨̡̪̤̣̰̣͖̥̤́̓̐̆̔͛̍̀͜ị̵̢̛̤̱̄̉̅̇͂̈̓͆́͜͠s̴̨̧̛̳͈͇̖̱̜̲̗̟̖̩̲̫̥͕̗͒͋̓̈̅̑̍̃̌͐̎̑́̈́͋̓́̾̚͜ͅ ̶̡̨̛͇͙͕̪͓͚̯͕̠̗̯̘̙͚̳̺̦̆̇̆̒̑͒́̽̐̈̀̍̈́̒̓͘͘͜͜͝͠ơ̵̢̹̠̽̇͋̍͛̈́̋̐͐̿̍̎̾͘͝͝w̴̙̫͔̝̓̓͌́͆̂͌͑̊̿̔̆͆̽́̿͝n̴̪͕̩̹̳͉̪͙̟͔͈̜̼͕̗̥͎̮̫̟̤͉͛̐͛̎̆͂̓͆͑͑́͋̿̅̎͐̊̔͠͠ ̵̧̛̳̭̯̭̳̱̼͖̭̦̟̰̞̖̯̀̅̑͆̋̿̿̃̂̾̈́̌͂̎́̓̏͊́͘͠t̶̨̡̧̘̻̦̟̯̭̠̃́͊h̷̨͔̰̬̹̱͔͎̱̲̙̼̣̺̪͓̟͂̃̄͒̈́̿̀̈̊͛́̔̀̽̎̆̀̉́̕̕r̵̡̫̤͙̱̀͗̉̓̕͜ǫ̷̡̢̹͕̮͓̲̰̝̹̤̹̝͔̗̝͎̃̐̆͜a̴̧̡͎̲͍̳͇̼̤͍̻̲̞̠̦̯͖̝͚̖̰̖̒̏̑̉̆̊̓̌̀̃̀̿̚ͅt̶̨̟̝̃̍̓̐̎̀͛͛͘.̶̡̡̢̡̩̝̤̰̣̘̯̾̄́̍̏̋̅̎̇͆̈͠ͅ ̶̛̘̪̻̩͎̮̹̣̼̗̥̘̈͊̓̑̿͌̇̋͑̃͛̃̐͊̏͋͜ͅ

Yeah, he tries not to think about that one.

A voice in his head tells him though, that’s what will end up happening either way. He knows it’s right.

Act II: The Thing That Touched Him

Weeks go by, but to Sylvain, they are all the same, endless day, stretched thin until it starts to tear.

Sylvain sits on his bed. He’s been staring at his right wrist for a while now, although he wouldn’t know for how long. His room is dim, lit only by the dying flicker of a candle that’s burned halfway down to the base on the desk. The flame doesn’t crackle, it's silent.

His wrist has a faint print on it, like a phantom of warmth. He can’t get rid of it, no matter what he does. He’s tried ignoring it, but it physically hurts despite no scar etched into the skin. No matter how hard he scrapes the area, how many people he has gasping beneath him, it never disappears. He has to make a very conscious effort to pretend the alternative of cutting off that patch of skin doesn’t cross his mind. 

Byleth touched him there, just for a second, so long ago. It was enough to leave a burning mark, yet Sylvain needs to be set ablaze. He flexes his fingers slowly, as if trying to memorize that contact. That’s funny. Maybe he is past being angry about it, past wanting it to be gone. His eyes are distant, lips slightly parted.

“He didn’t look disgusted,” he murmurs, voice barely there. He sounds almost reverent. 

Something crawls under his skin, like spiders. He can’t stay here any longer. He’ll carve a hole into his wrist to let them out if he does.

He stands suddenly. Paces once. Stops. Looks at the door. If memory serves right, Byleth must be at choir practice until around seven today. 

There’s plenty of time.

He slips out of his room, silent in the hallway, passing by others like smoke. He gets some greetings and passing smiles, but no one questions where he’s going. No one ever does. He’s harmless like that, probably on his way to see a girl. No one seems to notice how his person suit is starting to slip off.

Byleth’s quarters aren’t locked.

It’s not wrong , is it? He just wants to understand Byleth. It's only fair, given how much Byleth pretends he can see through Sylvain. And if he won’t let Sylvain in when he’s awake... then he’ll find the pieces he leaves behind. Simple as that.

He steps in, breathes in deeply. It smells faintly like leather and ink, not much else. The door clicks softly at his back when he closes it. He doesn’t lock it. 

The space is more or less orderly. Byleth is disciplined when it comes to training, but not so much in other areas of his life. The desk is all cluttered, for example. He didn’t make the bed today. Sylvain swats away the sudden need to lay back there and bundle under the sheets. He wonders what would happen if Byleth came back only to find him there, sprawled on his bed like a dead animal.

There aren’t many things that catch his attention since there isn't anything laying around. The closet and drawers’ contents are out of sight, and a small bag sits quietly in the corner of the room. A mercenary wouldn’t have many belongings, right? So unlinke Sylvain, who needed three big trunks to bring his stuff when he moved into the monastery. 

An idea itches in his mind regarding the clothes he’d find if he simply pulled one drawer open, but then his eyes land on a pair of gloves resting on the edge of the desk, and he stops on his tracks. 

Those touched him. 

He walks to the desk, and observes the gloves for a couple of moments, heartbeat behind his temples. He picks one up carefully. It doesn’t feel particularly expensive, but the material seems resistant. It is slightly more worn than the other — thumb patch roughened from sword grip. 

He brings it to his face, smells the fabric. A shaky breath escapes him. Something between relief and horror.

This wrapped around the hand that stopped me.

He sinks into the bed. Glove still in hand, cradled like a sacred thing.

“I bet you sleep just fine, professor,” he whispers to the glove. “I bet you never dream about the people clawing at your back.”

His thumb strokes the worn leather, gently.

“But I do. I dream of you.”

A pause. Outside, he hears the monastery’s life carrying on. 

The dream —any of them, really. All of them —, it hasn’t left him yet. It's tucked in between his organs, behind his eyes. His body remembers it more than his mind does.

But he is certain Byleth’s mouth had opened. Whether it was around a moan, a cry for help or Sylvain’s name, he doesn’t know, and frankly he doesn’t care. Because he welcomed him. His hands hadn’t pushed Sylvain away. They’d held him there, kept him close. In all of the dreams, Byleth wanted him, he is sure of that.

He stays there for a while, listening to a clock tick in the dark. 

The leather is cool against his fingertips. Worn just enough to carry the faint shape of Byleth’s hand. His eyes flick to the door, still very much unlocked. 

I shouldn’t.

I already did.

His fingers press into the inside of the glove, slow and hesitant, tracing the contours where Byleth’s fingers once were. His breathing hitches. Liquid heat pools in his lower belly.

Byleth doesn’t even know what he does to him. He walks around like nothing matters. Like Sylvain’s not coming apart at the seams every time he looks his way. 

He lifts it to his mouth again. Kisses the place where the palm would be. Then runs the material across his jaw, his throat. He lets out a raspy hum, his lips curling into a shaky smile. 

So this is what it would feel like. 

He slips his hand completely inside the glove, to feel like he’s wearing part of Byleth. Like he's filling the space Byleth left for him to find. The glove stands in for Byleth’s hand, for his body, for his permission .

That hand travels down his body, plays with a button and a zipper, then finds Sylvain’s ache. 

He doesn’t close his eyes. He keeps them open, fixed on the glove. On the shape of it, on the up and down movement. On the idea that this is his now. That he’s allowed to want this. That no one else will ever know how good Byleth’s grip feels.

The rhythm is slow at first, almost tender. Then sharper, despite the lack of proper lubrication that makes it hurt a little. Sylvain doesn’t mind. He pants through his teeth, hips shifting, the back of this free hand pressed to his mouth, catching every broken sound. His gaze flicks to the unlocked door. Sweat clings to his skin, but not from fear.

“You’d understand,” he rasps. 

Because he would, right? Maybe one day, Byleth would even be moved by how much he needs this. After all, Byleth is a Saint. Or he isn't? Which one is it? Sylvain’s mushy mind is lost on what he is supposed to believe. He’s tired of running around and playing cat and mouse, so he just lets his head go empty and allows himself to drown in this pleasure. Byleth’s hand picks up the pace, faster, frantic.

“Y-yeah, you’d understand,” Sylvain repeats, feeling like he might die of a fever. “If you knew. If you saw how much I—”

His voice cuts off. The rest of the words dissolve into a low, aching groan.

And then there’s silence, a ringing in his ears as his vision comes back. His chest is heaving, his forehead damp with sweat. He opens his hand, white staining the glove as damning evidence.

He stays there for a minute, trembling.

He's not crying, not quite. But close. 

A sputter of a laugh escapes through his lips. 

He’s losing it.

Act III: The golden shadow

The midday sun cuts harsh angles across the training grounds, casting long shadows between the archways. The courtyard outside is crowded this afternoon. Students chatting, running to make it in time for riding practice, on their way to the dining hall. Somewhere nearby, a lute is being tuned off-key. The world is moving, alive and noisy.

Sylvain doesn’t hear any of it. He hasn’t blinked in nearly a minute.

He sees them before they see him.

Standing near the weapons rack, close— closer than they should be, Byleth and Dimitri. They’re talking, low-voiced. Dimitri says something, and Byleth does that little thing, that half-smile , barely there, but fond.

Sylvain feels sick to his stomach.

You wore his glove while you came.

You kissed it like a lover.

And now Byleth is here. Whole, untouched, holy. Like nothing happened at all. Like he hasn’t been leading Sylvain on for ages.

Sylvain lifts his hand —the same one that wore the glove— and rubs his jaw like he’s tired. But he’s not tired. He’s high. Off the shame. The thrill. The memory of the stolen glove still folded, hidden under his pillow. And the need to lodge a blade between Dimitri’s eyebrows.

Sylvain always watches the little things, remembers them too clearly. Like the day Byleth laid a reassuring hand on Dimitri’s back after he fumbled a recipe, just a light touch, one Sylvain still sees when he slashes through bandits during missions.

Now, Sylvain watches the way Byleth listens when Dimitri speaks, the way Byleth’s body tilts toward him without meaning to.

Sylvain feels something sharp catch behind his ribs.

So he can smile. Just not for me.

He doesn’t even know what they’re talking about. Probably nothing all that important. Dimitri doesn’t need to have anything interesting to say to earn Byleth’s sole attention, after all. It makes sense, though, because Dimitri is always perfect. He is everything Sylvain pretends he doesn’t want to be; noble, respected, chosen.

Is it always this easy for Dimitri, Sylvain wonders? Do people just gravitate to him without him even trying? And now Byleth. Of course it’s him. Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? The worst thing is, Dimitri doesn’t know what he is taking from Sylvain. He doesn’t even want it the way he does. He doesn't need it.

He thinks, Don’t I warrant a single glance?

He thinks, I could make you need me the way he needs you.

He thinks, You’d ██ me if you couldn’t see him anymore.

He pushes off the wall, strides over as calmly as he is able to, but then his hand lands too firmly on Byleth’s shoulder. A press and a warning, not really a greeting.

“Professor,” he calls out. His smile arrives half a second late. “You’re looking dangerously cozy over here. Should I be worried?”

Dimitri turns first, polite as always. 

“Good afternoon, Sylvain.”

Byleth inclines his head. 

“We were just finishing up.”

“You’re playing favorites again,” Sylvain accuses, light as anything. “I’m starting to feel neglected.”

You were in my mouth an hour ago.

Byleth doesn’t rise to it. Of course he doesn’t, he never does. Just watches with those calm, steady eyes that make Sylvain want to smash something.

Sylvain steps in between them under the pretense of reaching for a practice spear. It forces Dimitri to take a step back.

“You missed sparring this morning,” Byleth says, still neutral. Still maddening.

Alois couldn’t interest him less, so of course he ditched him. If anything, it’s Byleth’s fault for being busy all the time. 

“I was with Annette,” Sylvain replies, not looking at him. “She wanted help with some Crest theory. You know me, always ready to lend a hand to a fellow victim of the bloodline lottery.”

He feels Dimitri’s blue gaze on him. It bores at his back, giving away how the prince is not used to being ignored.

Sylvain smiles wider. He steps closer to the professor. His hand lands on Byleth’s forearm, light but lingering.

“Actually, speaking of which... maybe we should make time for some one-on-one instruction,” Sylvain says. “I’ve got a few things I could use help with. If you're free later, maybe you and I could catch up.”

Dimitri shifts behind him, just a fraction. Sylvain sees his gaze flick to his hand in his mind’s eye, surely recognizing the challenge. 

“We’ll see,” Byleth replies evenly. He's not dismissive, but doesn't sound particularly interested either. It's the kind of answer that gives Sylvain nothing.

And that’s what makes it worse. What does Byleth get out of taunting Sylvain like this? Is he some kind of sadist? The Goddess enjoys people graveling at Her feet, it would seem. 

“Sylvain,” Dimitri says softly at his back, but there’s weight behind it.

He doesn’t turn to him. Doesn’t acknowledge him.

Do you think he dreams of Byleth’s hands, too? Or does he get them whenever he wants?

Sylvain doesn’t move. He’s smiling, but the spiders are back, this time inside his skull. His wrist stings, and he wishes he could chop he whole hand off, only to press it into Byleth’s chest to force him to acknowledge it. 

“ Here ,” he’d say, grimacing like a madman. “ You forgot this .”

The mask slips back into place. He laughs, shaking his head, stepping away.

“Right, right. Wouldn’t want to get handsy. Not with an audience.”

He glances at Dimitri. 

“Your Highness keeps such a close eye on things. It’s admirable.”

Dimitri’s expression is unreadable. Sylvain steps back, hands raised in mock surrender.

“Don’t worry,” he says lightly, but his voice hums with something just beneath the surface. “I know where I stand.”

He notices a girl he once hooked up with across the training grounds, and the excuse shines brightly. He waves them goodbye, starting in her direction.

But his hand grips the lance so tightly his knuckles go white.

He paces in his room later, restless, heat rising in his chest.

Byleth doesn’t react to Sylvain, not the way he does to Dimitri. He’s tried everything. He flirts, he teases, he touches, and Byleth just... lets him. Like he’s a breeze passing through a damn window. But with Dimitri? One word, and he listens. One look, and he smiles like he means it.

It took Sylvain a while, but he can see it clearly now. It took a kick against the chair next to the bed, which lies half broken on the carpet, splinters pointing every which way.

Sylvain knows what this is. It’s not about him being too much, or too little. It’s about him not being Dimitri . And the broken prince doesn’t even have to try, that’s the thing. Byleth just chooses him.

Sylvain laughs, one bitter, broken note.

But what’s even more funny is that, if he is being honest, Byleth would never pick him. Even if Dimitri weren’t in the way. Sylvain is noise. He’s just background.

He’s shaking a little now, from something he’s refusing to name.

But if Sylvain could just get Byleth alone, truly to himself for a while, he thinks he could make him see. He thinks he could prove he’s the one who actually sees Byleth. The real him. The version even Dimitri doesn’t get.

Act IV: You will do but just enough

Behind the Cathedral, because he knows Byleth is there, it’s easy for Sylvain to cut off the professor’s way when he is about to go back. He always makes a point of stepping too close whenever they talk, it feels like yet another subtle violation of the man’s space. Byleth stands still, momentarily taken by surprise, yet not enough to take a step back. His expression is hard to read, as usual. There is no one around at this time of day, most classes taking place across the stone bridge. Not even nuns visit this area at this hour. Sylvain would know. 

He shows Byleth a wolfish smile.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

“Are you talking to me?”

Sylvain chuckles. He feels high on adrenaline for some reason, the tips of his fingers tingling. Maybe it’s the fact that they are alone for the first time in who knows how long. Definitely way too long. There is no one around to steal Byleth’s empty stare from him.  

“You see any other work of art around here?”

At this, Byleth seems genuinely confused. Sylvain doesn’t buy it for a second, but he plays along.

“I just wanted to say hi, Professor. You are always a sight for sore eyes.”

Byleth shakes his head, a soft sigh escaping his lips. 

“You're insufferable.”

Someone is in a mood. It could be due to a number of reasons, but his patience seems to be running thin already. Sylvain feels an itch at the back of his throat that he wants Byleth to scratch with his teeth. At the same time, he wants to bite and grind his canines against Byleth’s cervicals. He can’t decide which he’d like better. He licks his lips, heavy lidded eyes fixed on that mouth.

“First time I’ve heard that.”

Byleth crosses his arms. 

“I doubt it. I'm sure many have told you as much before.”

This has to be the first time he puts up a physical barrier between them. In the air, in the way Byleth appears a bit uncomfortable for a change, Sylvain can smell something that wasn’t there before, yet just as sweet. It makes him shiver in anticipation, and he feels like a lynx about to pounce. He pretends to give Byleth’s words a thought. 

“Huh. And you're better than me, flaunting yourself in front of your students as much as you do?”

Byleth appears utterly unimpressed, although a slight hint of annoyance can be heard in his inflection when he speaks again.

“I'm just doing my job.” 

That’s funny. 

“Yep, uh-huh. That must be why everyone wants to fuck you.”

Byleth's eyes widen slightly at the bluntness of the comment. Sylvain knows that he won’t take offense for that, but that saying stuff about other students will definitely ruffle his feathers. Byleth recovers rather quickly. 

“Your mouth is going to get you in trouble one of these days.”

The understatement of the century. Sylvain cocks his head to observe him from a better angle. Not that Byleth has any bad angles, mind you. Not at all.

“The same could be said about yours,” he muses, words charged with meaning.

Byleth's eyes narrow a notch as he studies Sylvain's smirk.

The goddess must be on Sylvain’s side today, because Byleth’s voice drops a tad, an unusual hint of a warning in it.

“You sure you're talking to the right person with that tone?”

Finally , a good reaction. Maybe Syvain has finally worn Byleth thin, or maybe he’s having a shit day. Well, that makes two of them. Whatever the case, seeing Byleth taking a stance for a change makes Sylvain feel feverish. This is what he’s always wanted. Beating a dead horse is pointless. No resistance from a dummy makes training dull. Fucking a voiceless whore takes the fun out of it. 

He takes a deliberate step closer.

“I think I’ll have to find a way to shut you up, Professor,” he says in a whisper, not recognizing his own voice. It’s as if something, someone else, is using his body to speak. Perhaps these are his words, though, for once his and his alone, unfiltered, untransformed, true. “Maybe I’m just gonna have to stuff that pretty mouth full.”

Byleth's composure doesn't falter under Sylvain's intense gaze. 

“That’s a choice of words,” he says, deceivingly calm. “Want to rephrase?”

The man doesn’t back off either, tipping his head back so he can keep eye contact with Sylvain, defiant. He is done pretending not to see. There is that tingling crawling up Sylvain’s hands again. 

From that moment on, it’s like running downhill. Sylvain can’t stop.

Before he registers the motion, he grabs Byleth’s jaw harshly. His smile feels a bit more strained. 

I want to hurt you , a voice says, and Sylvain realizes it’s his own as it comes out of his lips.

Byleth looks upset and shocked in equal parts, but as his eyes flicker down to where Sylvain's hand is keeping him in place, he doesn’t slap his hold away, nor does he shove him or attempt to break free from his grip. His glare waits, unyielding, as if he is daring the boy to act on his urges. Sylvain feels his mouth water. Like a fox who's caught a rabbit playing brave despite its tender flesh being so close to his fangs. It’s as close to an invitation as he’ll ever get. With puffs of his labored breath making Byleth’s long lashes flutter, Sylvain leans in, and slowly, he laps a stripe up Byleth’s face, from his chin to his cheekbone. The salt of his skin, the taste that engulfs Sylvain’s lungs, makes his eyes roll into his skull and rips a moan out of his throat. 

“You taste so good,” he rasps, tone deep and breathy. “It makes me sick .”

Byleth recoils, but Sylvain doesn’t let go of him. The professor’s expression wavers ever so slightly in disgust. He doesn’t say anything, but Sylvain can only hear his own heartbeat behind his temples either way.

“Open your mouth for me, yeah? I’ve been wondering…”

Byleth's eyes narrow, a glint of defiance in them that has Sylvain salivating. Sylvain grabs him tighter, fingers digging into his cheeks firmly. Byleth clasps his wrist in a feeble attempt to make him let go, but Sylvain has no intention of doing so anytime soon. He’s done waiting, he is not going to be denied anymore.

Byleth’s brain works in mysterious ways, because after a moment of resistence, albeit reluctantly, he yields. He slowly parts his lips, and Sylvain doesn’t wait to tug on Byleth’s upper lip with his thumb to see his teeth. They aren’t especially noteworthy, yet Sylvain feels his own breath stutter, liquid heat spreading out his lower belly, as if he is ogling something he is not supposed to. Byleth attempts to speak, but Sylvain ignores him completely. He doesn’t dwell on why he is so turned on by this. He gets two fingers into the warm cavern and tugs on Byleth’s tongue to get a better look at it. Byleth's eyes widen, letting out a soft groan at what must be an uncomfortable sensation. 

It’s a pretty tongue, pink and moist and soft like velvet. And those lips— so perfect and made to take a cock. 

Completely unaware of his body moving on its own, Sylvain kicks Byleth’s leg, making the professor stumble and fall to his knees on the ground with a pained gasp. He looks up at Sylvain, and for a change, he seems positively pissed. 

He looks so good like that, so, so good. Dream-like. Straight out of Sylvain’s best dreams. 

“Oops. You alright, Professor? Gotta be careful.” Sylvain’s fingers run through Byleth’s hair, deceivingly fond. “Shit. You’re so fucking pretty.”

Byleth bats his touch away. 

“Get your hands off of me.”

But Sylvain is not listening. He genuinely isn’t. He cups the man’s face, forcing him to keep his eyes on him from his spot at his feet. Those mint eyes glaring at him make him feel drunk off the agitation.

“Don’t think so,” Sylvain breathes. “Don’t wanna.” Don’t think I can. 

He really can’t, and the worst thing is, Byleth doesn’t understand— Sylvain needs . He is drowning in need. He has been for so long and now, what he wants, who he wants, is finally within reach.

With a trembling hand, the zipper of his pants goes down. The instant release of pressure against his groin makes him let out a sigh. Byleth freezes for a second, a small flare of panic in his gaze, then he tries to squirm away, but Sylvain’s firm grip on him doesn’t allow it.

“Sylvain, w-what are you doing?”

Sylvain can’t help but lick his lips with impatience. He is so fucking hard. He’s never been this hard in his life.

“I think you do know. You’ve probably done this many times before, right?”

He brings Byleth's face closer to his hips with an unkind tug. Since the sudden jerk forward nearly makes the professor lose his balance, he grabs onto Sylvain’s thighs for purchase.

“You’re always going about how much you want to help your students, so help me out, yeah?” Sylvain lowers the fabric of his boxers, letting his aching erection spring free right before Byleth’s eyes. He hums in pleasure as he gives himself a few lazy strokes. “Open wide.”

Byleth’s gaze flickers down to Sylvain’s cock once, and then away. His brow knits, yet he doesn’t move. Not for the first time, Sylvain wonders what goes through his mind. 

Gently, mockingly, Sylvain slaps his shaft against Byleth’s cheek, reveling in the way the man’s expression sours with repulsion, how he tries to face away but can’t because Sylvain physically stops him from doing so. He could be doing so much more to break free, yet he doesn’t. It pisses Sylvain off. 

“C’mon, be good for me, Professor.“

Sylvain can see the cogs in his head turn, the internal struggle. It’s plain visible for once, and he finds that vulnerability suits Byleth perfectly. And it’s even better because it’s all thanks to Sylvain. It’s like he forcefully plucked him out of heaven, where he belongs among the divine, and made him face the ugly nature of humanity.

After a drawn out moment of hesitation, Byleth slowly, reluctantly, opens his mouth, his cheeks burning from shame and chagrin. Sylvain doesn’t wait for further permission. He readjusts his clasp on him, threading his fingers through Byleth’s holy green strands, and feeds him his cock, inch by delicious inch.

“Mmmm yes, like that,” he moans. “There you go, there you fucking go.”

He has no interest in ending things quickly, so he enjoys pushing his hips forward at a slow pace. It’s so velvety inside, those shiny lips stretching little by little and the small spasms of Byleth’s attempts at drawing in air massaging Sylvain’s dick like a warm welcome. When his cockhead touches the back of Byleth’s throat and the professor’s muscles tense up, Sylvain’s low laugh rumbles in his chest. He firmly holds those strands of hair at the back of the professor’s head, just in case.

“Hush. It’s okay. I know you like it. You probably do this for everyone else, right? Felt like joining in the fun.”

He does withdraw a bit, though, if only to snap his hips forward again, making Byleth gag, his gloved fingers digging into Sylvain’s thighs. He thrusts calmly inside again, relishing in the involuntary drag of Byleth’s warm tongue on the underside of his shaft.

“You look so good like that,” Sylvain groans. “A caring professor. Knew this mouth would be so good. You’re a natural. You should be proud.”

Byleth's eyes squeeze shut as he's held in place, embarrassment and indignity filling him. He probably is not used to this loss of control, to having to obey like this, his own say in the matter irrelevant. He probably can't help but feel a pang of guilt, knowing that the image of him as the generous professor everyone knows and loves is now forever tarnished by this, by Sylvain using him like this. The mere thought makes Sylvain’s cock twitch. 

He picks up the pace, biting at his lips as his eyes feast on the sorry sight Byleth makes at his feet, gurgling and face bright red due to the lack of air and humiliation both.

“Beautiful,” Sylvain rasps. “Even on your knees and choking on cock you are so beautiful.” 

What does it feel like? , Sylavin wants to ask. Knowing that he's being reduced to this by a student he is supposed to guide. That none other than Byleth is the one allowing it to happen. Sylvain’s other hand goes lower, fingers circling around his neck, squeezing softly. Sylvain sees white, thighs tensing up and jaw going slack. He can feel his own cock through the skin every time it drives in and drags out. 

“Good boy,” Sylvain drawls, vision blurry. “Good fucking boy.”

The words send a shiver down the professor’s spine, Sylvain can feel it, and mint eyes lock onto him, teary, pleading and vulnerable despite his futile struggle to remain defiant. That look makes Sylvain go crazy. What is it? Does he want Sylvain to stop? Is he begging for him to keep going? Either way, it does wonders for him. Sylvain’s hips move faster, hand fisting his hair and balls slapping Byleth’s chin everytime he pounds the back of his throat as if it is a dedicated fuck sleeve.

Was it so hard? , Sylvain’s brain asks in a frenzy. This should have been them from the start. It would have saved them both so much time. If only Byleth didn’t have a stick up his ass and was so distracted by everything and everyone around him, Sylvain wouldn't have wasted a second and would have pounced on him from the get go. That way, Sylvain would have been the only one in his mind, the one to eclipse everyone else, denying him of a single well formed thought. Just like now. 

“Here it comes, baby,” Sylvain gasps, squeezing the man’s neck around him. “ A-Ah . Open that throat for it.”

Sylvain cums, lodged as deep as possible into that heavenly heat, and he feels Byleth swallow, his throat bobbing, submitting and exposed wide. Sylvain will never forget the sensation of it convulsing around his cock, wringing him dry, hoping to mold after him, of the professor’s Adam’s apple moving against the palm of his hand.

Only then does Sylvain allow him to pull away. Byleth coughs and wheezes, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. His eyes are still dazed and unfocused, and he takes a hand to his neck, surely feeling the burn and the lingering taste of Sylvain’s seed. His eyes remain on the ground, his pride and dignity in tatters. 

Sylvain himself takes a deep breath, oxygen and clear thoughts flowing back into his brain after the best orgasm he’s ever had. Now that he stops to think about it, no one ran into them in the middle of it, as surprising as that is. They are tucked away from prying eyes, he supposes, out of the way of most people minding their business at the Cathedral, but they aren’t precisely hidden either. The possibility of someone actually seeing them, of an innocent bystander bearing witness to the elegant, perfect professor on his knees, mouth full of cock and tears streaming down his cheeks, makes Sylvain’s spent length throb. 

But the truth remains, the view is his and his alone, and that’s how it’s supposed to be.

Is this how the Goddess gained her followers, how She got them to be as faithful and obsessed with Her, to the point of starting wars on Her name? Sylvain thinks he can see it.

With shaking legs, Byleth gets to his feet once more. His long lashes are damp and the underside of his eyes a bit red. Strangely, he doesn’t seem mad, just exhausted. Sad, even. Why would he be sad? 

“You good, Professor?” Sylvain asks, trying for a light tone. He runs a hand through his sweaty ginger locks before he tucks himself back into his trousers. “Nothing a merc can’t handle, yeah?”

Byleth’s eyes return to him, where they belong, yet it’s as if he is looking through him, as if Sylvain’s flesh is transparent and Byleth’s divine powers allow him to see everything Sylvain desperately wants to keep out of sight. Like dirt swept under the carpet, like broken porcelain behind the cabinet’s door, like blood under his nails after rinsing his hands over and over.

It’s like nothing changed, then. The Goddess is still judging him, able to see he’s made of filth. He forces himself to smile, but he knows it must look all wrong. 

“Aww, you should have said you were not into it. Think I’ll just look for someone else next time, then.”

It’s the right thing to say. Byleth’s eyebrows twitch a little, and he looks apprehensive in the exact same way he didn’t when it was him who was getting throat fucked.

Sylvain hums, making a show of pondering it over. 

“Maybe Ashe… those dumb freckles would look great all covered in cum.” He snorts. “Oh, I’m supposed to mention a girl, right? So it’s more in character and shit.”

Byleth glares at him.

“Don't you dare lay a finger on him,” he croaks.

Sylvain chuckles. A voice in his brain whispers to seek Ashe out and scar his face in a way Byleth won’t want to look at him ever again. 

“Showing your fangs, huh? Always a mother hen.”

Evidently, Byleth doesn’t find it funny. His eyes are hard, his voice filled with a cold, hard warning.

“I'm serious, don’t you dare touch any of my students.”

Sylvain worries at his lips. The words feel like a knife gushing between his ribs. This is just like going in circles, isn’t it? It’s Byleth letting Sylvain do whatever he wants and then condemning him for it. It’s Byleth telling him he doesn’t really care about what happens to him, but those he does care about, which is, everyone but Sylvain , are off limits.  He is saying Sylvain doesn’t matter. 

Sylvain tries to swallow the bile rising and burning up his esophagus. 

“I don’t get it, why are you looking at me like that? Am I not one of your precious students too?”

Byleth's expression doesn't soften. If anything, the anger in his eyes only deepens at the question. He speaks with a careful, measured tone.

”You think you can play the victim now? After what you just did? After you— after you made me—”

Sylvain shakes his head, taking a menacing step forward, then another, making Byleth backtrack until his back hits the wall of the Cathedral. 

“Shut up, seriously, just shut the fuck up.”

”Sylvain—“

Sylvain runs a hand over his face, feeling like he will break something if he doesn’t take a moment to relax. With Byleth so close though, caged between his chest and a brick wall that won’t let him escape, it’s hard to focus. He places a palm next to Byleth’s head on the ancient stone, letting his head hang a bit forward. 

“I just— I hate that about you, you know?” He huffs, the sound dangerously close to self deprecating. He catches Byleth’s eyes, and he feels like he will drown if he lets go of them. “You are always so mean to me, acting like you’re better in every way. Would it kill you to be more understanding of little old me?”

Byleth's jaw clenches, clearly holding back what he is really thinking. Nothing new under the sun, though. What Sylvain wouldn’t do to crack that skull open, just to look inside. Sylvain almost wishes he’d just come out and say he hates him, too. Would he feel better if Byleth did? Would he finally be set free of this man’s hold on his heart? 

Tenderly, Sylvain cups Byleth’s face, thumbing at his cheekbone and brushing his hair off his face to tuck it behind his ear. He watches Byleth’s shoulders sager the slightest bit. He doesn’t quite relax, but he’s not fighting back the touch again.

Yesyesyes let me in. 

“Shhh, Professor, it’s alright.”

So he does have power over him, even if it’s a little bit.

“You are such a sweet person. You always find it in your heart to forgive others, don’t you?”

The compliment sounds like a taunt, but there’s a hint of truth to it. Byleth does try to see the best in people, to understand and forgive. He is a saint, after all. He is the Goddess that desperately tries to reach for Her children and save them from the fire. 

Is it so bad that Sylvain wants Her all to himself, though?

Byleth presses his spread palm against Sylvain’s chest, as if asking him to give him some space. Sylvain remains rooted to the ground. He’ll die before he gives the warmth of Byleth’s proximity away. 

“Don’t act like you know me,” muses Byleth, voice still hoarse from the abuse. “You don’t know how I feel.”

Sylvain snorts, his breath fanning over Byleth’s mouth. 

“But I do, we all do. I know I can do this and much worse and you’ll forgive me. Because I'm your precious student.”

The truth makes Byleth’s eyes flare again. Yet there’s also a hint of resignation in them, a reluctant acceptance. His hand balls against Sylvain’s chest. Sylvain feels a spark run through him, a spark near gunpowder. The kind of spark that the Lance or Ruin sends up his arms when it’s thirsty for blood.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he hisses, and it is very much a warning as it is a plea. “Would you look at Dimitri like that?”

Byleth’s expression falters for a moment, the mention of the prince catching him off guard. He shakes his head, as if the mere comparison is ridiculous. 

“Dimitri is nothing like—“

Albeit too late, he stops himself and averts his gaze for a moment, a flicker of guilt flashing across his face. 

“Say it," Sylvain demands.

“Sylvain…” 

“Say that he is nothing like me.”

Byleth wants to advocate for himself, but before he manages to say anything, Sylvain slaps him across the face. The professor gasps at the unexpected blow. He brings a gloved hand to his cheek, the stinging pain bringing a wetness to his eyes. His expression is a mixture of shock, hurt, and disbelief, his gaze flickering back to look at Sylvain.

“How can you—?”

In a blurr, Sylvain’s hands are on Byleth’s neck, right where they feel at home, and he squeezes, making the man choke on his own words. Sylvain tries his best to control his voice when he next speaks.

“Careful. Don’t wanna hear a word about how damn righteous and worthy of your favor Dimitri is.”

Byleth makes a stifling sound. He tries to pull back, his hands flying up to clasp at Sylvain’s wrists, but the grip on his neck only tightens. He attempts to speak, yet the words catch in his throat, his voice a strangled whisper.

“S-Sylvain…”

“What is it? Speak up, Professor.”

The pressure on his trachea must make it increasingly difficult to breathe, out of Byleth’s mouth only comes a weak rasp.

“Please... let… go…”

It takes a prolonged minute, in which Sylvain’s mind disconnects from his body to burn the image of Byleth’s windpipe crushed by his hand onto his retinas, but he ultimately comes back to himself and releases him. Byleth collapses onto the grass, gasping for air. 

Sylvain stays there, watching him coughing and panting, trying to understand why Byleth makes it seem as if he’s the bad guy here. Although he starts to like more and more the sight of the professor helpless at his feet.

“Why don’t you fight back?” Sylvain wonders aloud, genuinely perplexed. “You have a dagger right there. You are not defenseless. I don’t get it.”

Byleth doesn’t answer immediately, but the look in his gaze says that the thought of using it, of fighting back, never even occurred to him. Byleth swallows, and it looks painful. 

“I don’t want to harm you. You’re my student.”

Sylvain can’t take much more of this. Who would have thought having one of his fantasies come to life would also hurt this much, would make him so damn angry? 

Deep breaths, deep breaths.

Surely, it must be Byleth’s fault. This is all his fault. He coughs a short, dry laugh. 

“I hate your guts so fucking much,” he says, mostly thinking aloud. “You’re such a nice person. I want to tarnish you and see if that makes you hate me.” 

Byleth doesn’t say anything, so Sylvain keeps talking. He crouches next to him, so they are eye-level again. 

“I think I want to kill you myself. Maybe you’ll hate me then and your ghost will finally stick to me.”

Byleth’s eyes widen further. He struggles onto his knees, his hand going to his burning neck, where he must still faintly feel the imprint of Sylvain’s devout hands.

“Sylvain, you do realize what you’re saying, don’t you?”

It doesn’t make sense, Sylvain knows. He doesn’t even know if he wants Byleth to look at him and only him or if he wants to never see him again. Maybe if Sylvain makes him hate him, if he does something bad enough, he’ll finally look his way…

But it’s not working. Byleth looks as if his pain is not physical; he doesn’t even seem scared or resentful. He doesn’t look like he hates Sylvain at all. That look in his eye is as if he is aching to reach out, to find a way to soothe Sylvain’s own hurt that no doubt he can sense beneath the anger.

“S-Sylvain,” the professor starts carefully. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you, whatever it is that’s making you act like this, you can tell me. I-I want to help.”

Haven’t you been listening? Sylvain wants to yell, That I want you out of my head? Because Byleth haunts him day and night and has infected him like a disease, altered his brain forever. He can feel his organs rotting with every passing second, the plague festering. He wants to claw at his own chest and rip his heart out forcefully if he must. Or, which is easier, to extend that putrid poison onto someone else, make them just as filthy, to be together in the decadence. 

He wants so many things, and all of them confuse him because he knows getting only one of them will make him finally go insane.

He gives Byleth an exhausted smile.

“Why would you help me after what I did to you, knowing what I want to do to you?”

Byleth is silent for a moment, the question hanging between them. When he speaks, he seems terribly genuine, his words like a dead sentence. 

“Because you’re not a bad person, Sylvain.“

Maybe this is not even real. Sylvain wants, suddenly and violently, to touch him again. Just to prove to himself that Byleth is real, here, flesh — not just a fevered dream created by a stolen piece of leather.

“Prove you are not lying,” Sylvain whispers. 

A part of Byleth must know that he should just walk away, that it would be the smarter, safer choice. But there is something else, another part that must compel him to ease those who are suffering. That’s just who he is. That’s why Sylvain—

Byleth’s slightly trembling hand tentatively brushes a strand of hair away from Sylvain’s eyes. The touch is light, delicate when it shouldn’t. Generous for someone so undeserving. A touch of tender light for someone who wants to gouge out his own eyes. 

“You know I don’t really have much,” Byleth muses with difficulty, forcing his voice to come out. “But if there is anything you want from me, you can take it.”

The words hang between them, heavy with meaning. Sylvain’s heart is hammering in his chest, apprehension and hope and a thousand other emotions warring inside of him. He feels his throat getting dry. His first instinct is to pull back, to bat that hand away, that same hand that touched him that day at the training grounds. The hand that stopped him then is now accepting him. 

“You just have to always play the martyr, don’t you?” he accuses, but he can hear the fear in his own voice. 

Byleth shakes his head.

“This isn’t some kind of sacrifice,” he assures, tone terribly soft. “I mean it. Don’t you want me?

Sylvain swallows a lump in his throat.

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Why won’t you let yourself have this? I’m right here, aren’t I? Stop pushing me away.”

Sylvain grabs Byleth’s wrist with a painful grip. He knows he is going to harm him, even more than he has already. There will be no going back. But Byleth is always so selfless… he never thinks about himself.  The merciful Goddess that hurts for Her children. 

“I hate you,” he chokes out. 

Byleth’s eyes look incredibly sad. They roam over Sylvain’s face, searching for answers. 

“Why? Because I care about you? Because I want to give you something you clearly want, but can’t seem to allow yourself to have?”

“Shut your mouth!” 

Byleth falters for a moment at the harshness of the command. 

“You are contradicting yourself.”

He knows, of course he knows. He is tired of running around in circles in his own mind, too. He never seems to catch up. Every time he believes he’s got it, that he understands, one look at Byleth’s dark silhouette will throw him in for a loop. 

Sylvain sighs. He can’t do much more than this. He’ll stick to this path, no matter what happens. 

He says, very calmly, detached, looking the professor in the eye, 

“You are going to regret it. I will make it hurt. I need it to hurt, so you never forget.”

Byleth stiffens, but he doesn’t attempt to flee. He remains where he is, his voice even, and there is not a slight hint of deceit in it. Simply acceptance, simply a heartfelt offering. 

“Do what you must, to relieve yourself from that burden.”

Sylvain’s eyes widen, his breath stuttering. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, the trust and the permission that’s being given to him despite everything. He thinks… he wanted Byleth to fight back, to refuse, to give him something to hold on to. Does this mean… that Sylvain matters enough? That Byleth genuinely wants to suffer for him too? Is it okay to believe that? Wouldn’t it make Sylvain yet another one of the foolish sheep that follow Her blindly, that chases after that healing, divine light?  

“Sylvain,” says Byleth, bringing him back to the real world. “Be honest with me. What is it that you really want to do to me?”

Sylvain doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he wants, what to do, what to believe. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He feels like crying. 

He says the first thing that comes to mind, because it must be his true self talking. 

“I want to force you to forget about everyone else.” He reaches out, rubbing a strand of green hair at Byleth’s neck between two fingers. The pulse that must beat behind the skin temps him like fresh bait. “I want you to be in so much pain you can only cry out my name. I want to make it so you can never be with someone else out of fear they see my mark on you.” 

Byleth gives a small sigh, whether because he is steeling himself or because he is out of breath, Sylvain wouldn’t know. The professor’s green eyes lock on him. 

“Then do it. Make me forget everyone else, make me know only your touch.”

So be it. She has given Her blessing. She wants to burn at the stake.

Finale: I hope this hurts

Byleth stands there in the dim room with him, shirtless, the only lighting coming from the sunlight filtering through the gaps between drawn curtains. The silence is almost deafening, and it amplifies the sound of his own breathing, the rapid thump of his heart in his chest. Byleth doesn’t move, just waits with a sort of tense anticipation, his eyes on the figure of Sylvain as the boy circles him like a wolf would its cornered prey. There is nowhere to go, after all, nowhere to hide.

Finally, Sylvain has him all to himself. 

He steps closer, a sneaky hand sliding over the hilt of the professor’s dagger at his hip. Byleth flinches slightly, yet he doesn’t resist, standing perfectly still even as the blade is removed from his belt and held up in front of his face. With his free hand, Sylvain beckons him to lay back on the bed. On Sylvain’s bed. The glove burns at the corner of his vision, from its hideout beneath the pillow. 

Sylvain straddles his legs, swallowing, his heart thudding in his chest, eyes flicking down to meet Byleth’s gaze. The dagger gently drags over the professor’s chin, not enough weight onto it to break the skin. Byleth’s breath hitches as he feels the cool, flat edge of the blade run a delicate path down his neck. What an intimate feeling, Sylvain’s mind supplies, to pin down someone so powerful, someone who chose to be completely at his mercy. 

“Aren’t you scared, Professor?” he whispers, genuinely curious. He hopes he is, just a little bit. It would be a sign this is affecting him, too. 

Granted, there’s a slight hint of dread in his eyes, but it’s overshadowed by something else — something that runs deeper, something that makes Sylvain’s stomach twist in a way that’s as familiar as it is exciting.

Byleth’s throat works against the blade.

“I am. But I’m letting you do it anyway.”

Sylvain lets out a short, mirthless laugh. 

“Of course you are. You are sick in the head, just like me.”

Byleth doesn’t admit it aloud, but his eyes speak for him, and Sylvain can hear clearly, for the first time ever, what they have to say. They say, Yes, I’m sick for letting you do this. Sick for wanting it. 

Sylvain’s gaze rakes over him, drinking in every tiny detail; the way Byleth’s breath catches as the dagger traces a line of fire down his throat, down his chest, between his pecs, how the taunt muscles of his belly shift when the blade rests over them, the way his gloved hands grip the sheets as Sylvain lets him feel his whole weight press against him. 

“I could seriously just kill you right now, with your own dagger, and you’d let me,” he muses, amazed despite himself. 

Byleth nods.

“If that is what you want.”

Sylvain moves the blade down, even lower, until it reaches Byleth’s crotch, hovering and barely touching. Byleth holds his breath, remaining completely still at the threat. Meticulously, savoring the tense moment that stretches dangerously thin, Sylvain tears through the fabric of Byleth’s slacks. The sound of it is delightful. It makes Sylvain shiver.

“This isn’t how I pictured this happening, you know?” Sylvain murmurs, mostly talking to himself. “With you so willingly coming here and all.”

Byleth swallows, probably trying to collect his thoughts under the presence of the knife near his most vulnerable parts. Sylvain almost feels pity for him, but he reminds himself it must be a mercenary’s instincts, not fear, what Byleth is fighting against right now. Is that a good thing? Probably not. Sylvain wants to taste that fear, pure and unfiltered, as if to prove Byleth is human after all.

“I came up with a lot of different ways,” he goes on. “But most of them involved drugging you.”

At that, Byleth lets out a short, breathless laugh, his stomach shifting along with the sound. His eyes flicker upwards, momentarily forgetting about the dagger, holding Sylvain’s gaze. He doesn’t look amused per se, yet Sylvain can’t help the smile that comes to his lips on its own.

“What’s so funny?” He asks. “You finally realize how messed up this is? I still can do it if you want me to. I always have the herbs with me.”

Byleth sighs, shaking his head no. 

“Not necessarily funny, I suppose. I’m just surprised. And, I do believe that’s messed up.”

He pauses, his eyes still on the boy’s face.

“I don’t want you to drug me, though. I want to be here with you now, completely me, not… changed or altered by something you give me.”

The way he says it sounds like You shouldn’t be alone right now , and it pisses Sylvain off. It’s not him Byleth should be worried about. He drags the blade over bare skin, cuts a line along the professor’s thigh, and he sees the way his lips curl downwards a bit in contained pain. It’s a thin cut, very superficial, yet it makes a point of reminding him that he is defenseless, still in one piece simply because of Sylvain’s whims. 

“You sure about that?” Sylvain taunts, careful not to miss any change in Byleth’s stoic expression. 

Byleth lets out a low, ragged sigh and nods. The look in his eyes is determined, barely contaminated with a tinge of sadness.

“I’m sure.”

Sylvain can barely believe it, but so be it. He reaches for Byleth’s gloves, chooses to take them off instead of wasting time trying to cut through them, and when the man’s bare palms are in sight, Sylvain feels how his vision narrows to that patch of skin. He traces a slow line down one of them, marvelling at the beads of blood that peek from the wound. 

The simple fact that Byleth bleeds too is a reminder of how he tries to be strong, to set himself apart from them mere mortals and not show weakness, but in this moment, he’s anything but the divine entity he is supposed to be. He’s just a man made of flesh and bone and imperfect, with just as many flaws, just as fragile. 

Sylvain’s mind is completely blank as he leans in, hot tongue lapping across Byleth’s injured hand. The metallic taste of that blood elicits a moan in him, and so he licks and licks until the bleeding stops. Despite his better judgment, he then laps at the blade, feeling a thrill running through him. Whether the ensuing cut on his tongue is deliberate or not, he truly wouldn’t know. The mix of pain and desire is like a storm, intense and wild, almost making his head spin. 

This is nowhere near enough. 

Feverish, Sylvain catches Byleth’s jaw in his grip to make him turn to him. He laps at his lips, and the professor’s mouth opens in a silent gasp as Sylvain’s tongue sweeps across it. He needs no further invitation to plunge his tongue inside, pressing their bodies together, desperately wanting to share with him the taste of their mixed blood. It’s an intimate, overwhelming sensation that makes him tremble with need, his heart pounding in his chest as he feels how Byleth instinctively opens his mouth wider, letting Sylvain take control. With his other hand, Sylvain clasps Byleth’s injured one, fingers intertwining. He briefly wonders if the cut stings. He hopes it does.

Sylvain keeps kissing him, allowing himself to do one of the things that kept him awake at night, using his tongue to explore, to indulge, to brand . Sylvain’s blood marks Byleth as his, as if the cuts on his skin hadn’t already.

“It’s just like a blood pact, Professor,” Sylvain drawls, catching Byleth’s abused lower lip between his teeth. “How romantic is that?”

Byleth can’t do anything but nod, unable to deny Sylvain as he deepens the kiss. Sylvain has half a mind to focus to pat the mattress for the dagger and slash through the man’s underwear. He discards the blade for good then, making himself at home between Byleth’s legs.

He takes a moment to draw back, both to unzip his pants and to take in the sight that is Byleth sprawled like that, in Sylvain’s bed: chest raising and falling, a smudge of red at the corner of his panting mouth, thighs spread apart— their flushed skin peeking through rags of dark fabric. He looks as beatific as much as he seems to invite Sylvain to sin. 

Unlike him, Sylvain is painfully hard again, throbbing and angry in his own fist. He strokes himself harshly, hissing through his teeth at the lack of lubrication, but at the same time, it couldn’t be more perfect.

“Sylvain, I-I don’t know if we should go through with this. It’s a bad idea. I’m sorry, I…”

There’s something different in Byleth’s eyes now, as he realizes what’s next, the way Sylvain is inching closer and rearranging his legs so they rest atop Sylvain’s flexed thighs. It looks like the need to believe Sylvain will hear what he has to say, hoping he’ll stop. Is he having second thoughts?, Sylvain wonders in bliss. Is he finally realizing he’s bitten more than he can chew? Sylvain chuckles lowly, sinister.

So the dear professor is not unconditional. He is full of shit, just like Sylvain suspected all along. He pretends to be able to give them everything in him, he insists in acting as if there is no limit to his generosity, but there is, and Sylvain is going to show it to him. Even if he doesn't know that limit himself.

He pays the man no mind at all. Without any preparation or warning, Sylvain starts pushing into him. The muscles of Byleth’s thighs tense as a reflex, and it must hurt for him too, but Sylvain is almost drooling. At the way Byleth’s eyes squint from the discomfort, how his hands come to try to push Sylvain’s body away, how he is still so damningly soft between them. 

Sylvain swallows, too much saliva in his mouth, and grabs his face. He doesn’t want him to picture someone else above him, fantasizing his way out of the crude reality that Sylvain is the one doing this to him. 

“Hey, don’t look away from me.”

Byleth’s green eyes snap open, glassy as they are. He is just so beautiful in his pain. 

“That’s it,” Sylvain growls. “Fucking look at me.”

To his credit, Byleth knows how to follow orders. He keeps his gaze fixed on Sylvain’s face, surely feeling like he’s on display, exposed, utterly vulnerable like a toy for Sylvain to play with as he sees fit, yet doing nothing to remedy it. The bastard keeps his word, much to Sylvain’s chagrin.

Reinvigorated, Sylvain presses Byleth’s legs back against his chest to be closer, to sink further inside of him until he is fully sheathed into that velvety heat that was always meant to be his. Byleth lets out a soft noise of discomfort at being forced into such a position, and Sylvain sees a certain wetness to his pretty eyes that makes him go wild. 

Without a warning, he starts moving. It’s everything but easy, with that unkind friction that hurts them both every time Sylvain drags back, but then, whenever he slams forward, their hips slot together, where they belong, and it’s pure euphoria. It makes Sylvain’s vision go blurry. It’s as if Byleth’s body is rewarding Sylvain as much as it is punishing him for having his way with the Saint of a professor.

He must look in a daze, chasing that pleasure he is owed, grunting and digging his fingers into the plush flesh of Byleth’s thighs, forcing the sweetest sounds out of the professor. 

“S-Sylvain…!” Byleth begs, and it only makes Sylvain want to drive in faster, rougher. 

“You asked for this,” he manages against Byleth’s ear, control slipping between his fingers. “You made this happen. This is your fault. So take it.”

The Goddess does. She keeps in place, Her divine dominance, Her almighty gaze that judges Sylvain for his sins nowhere to be found. It’s as if she has abandoned Byleth as well. That’s fine, though. They can be in hell together.

Sylvain doesn’t notice, but he laughs at how fucked up that thought is. 

This is Byleth’s fault, he repeats to himself, all of it. He brings out the worst in Sylvain, he always has. 

Sylvain picks up the pace. There must be blood involved, something tearing at some point, because he suddenly is able to drill into Byleth more smoothly, and the professor seems to be chained to the pain, can’t help the ragged noises that escape his lips as Sylvain fucks into him like he is going to die tomorrow. Sylvain can only hope his mind is a wreck too, filled not just with pain and pleasure, but with something else, something that he doesn’t want to name, but that it’s there, that must be there, deep, aching inside his chest.

Because there is no point if he can’t feel it. Sylvain’s mark, this act of possession— Byleth must feel so treasured and complete, so lucky. Why would he let Sylvain do this otherwise?

He must feel so loved.  

The word hurts, it breaks Sylvain’s heart like glass that splinters beneath a fist. 

The tears that roll down Byleth’s cheeks must be out of happiness, no doubt. He is happy he can show Sylvain he wants to receive his… his…

Sylvain runs a tender hand through Byleth’s hair, the touch trembling as he feels his throat constrict. He hushes him, voice going down despite himself.

“Sshhh, it’s okay, Professor. Just focus on my voice, okay? I-I can be good for you, I’ll show you.”

Sylvain’s brain is spinning, the delicious blank he once delighted in suddenly tarnished at the sight of those tears. So Byleth is not okay with this? He should be, right? Because he is a martyr. He should be happy to give himself up even if… the other party is someone as filthy as Sylvain, right? 

Would Dimitri do something like this to his beloved professor? Would he strive to scar him so deeply, inside and out, just to claim him for himself?

He wouldn’t. He isn’t scum like Sylvain, he wouldn’t touch a fair lock in Byleth’s head without anything other than undying tenderness. 

And Sylvain is making him cry. 

They are fundamentally different, they can’t be compared, their love cannot be measured by the same stick. Sylvain’s love is filthy and gruesome and wants to swallow Byleth whole even if it means his flesh and bones will melt within, even if it makes Sylvain slash his own stomach and pull at his guts just to make sure Byleth’s remains are still there.  

He feels a knot of thorns scrapping the insides of his throat.

”Y-you understand, right, Professor?” he rasps, unable to stop his hips and the way they push Byleth against the mattress over and over. “I’m sorry I have to do this to you. I can't stop myself. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get you out of my head. It was the only way.”

“S-Sylvain, slow down.”

Sylvain can barely hear those words, his head spinning as he tries to process them in the midst of the intense pleasure and the way he wants to disappear. This is the best he’s ever felt and yet the worst day of his life.

Sylvain rambles. He is starting to crumble.

“P-please don’t hate me. You get it, right? You’re so beautiful. Don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me. I need you, I can’t live without you. You’re everything to me, Professor. I could never allow anyone else to have you. I just can't. You’ll never love anyone else, Professor. It’s only me. Always me. You’re all mine.”

Sylvain chokes back tears. He laughs, but the noise is pitiful.

So this is what it feels like to fall in love. It’s terrifying, jarring, the worst thing that could ever happen to someone. 

“I love you,” Sylvain whimpers. “I love you so much I can’t stand it. I’m so sorry.”

“Sylvain…!” Byleth manages to gasp out his name, voice quavering, a desperate plea for Sylvain to stopto keep going.

Sylvain kisses his neck, his chin, his face, a series of lavishing, desperate kisses, as if he’s trying to apologize to every bit of him. 

“You’re mine, Professor, right? All mine,” Sylvain repeats between the kisses, his voice low and ragged, full of love and desperation.

It’s like an incantation, a spell, and Byleth must feel the truth of it settle on him as surely as a brand. Sylvain is overwhelmed, drowning in the sensations, drowning in his own words, and all he can do is close his eyes and pray Byleth accepts his show of ownership.

“I love you. I love you. I love you,” Sylvain chants against his skin, his breath warm and ragged against Byleth’s collar bone. He’s shaking, his hands gripping Byleth’s body painfully tightly, afraid this Byleth only exists in his head too and will vanish at any moment.

“Please, Professor,” Sylvain buries his face against Byleth's skin like a child, his voice pleading, begging for some kind of absolution. “Tell me you love me…!”

Byleth’s voice is broken when he answers the call, no hesitation, not a second needed to think it over.

“I-I love you, Sylvain.”

Sylvain lets out a low, shuddering moan, full of relief and shame in equal parts. The words feel like a knife ripping through his chest, breaking ribs in its wake. Those three simple words are the only thing keeping him from completely falling apart, as much as they sting and sizzle like branding iron.

“I love you,” Byleth repeats, half-choked and almost too quiet to be heard, but the emotion behind it is undeniable.

Sylvain lets out a strangled, incoherent noise, and then he’s kissing Byleth, hard and frenzied, as if he’s trying to devour his very soul. He kisses him hungrily, frantically, hoping for all this to end, for it all to last forever, for Byleth to be the one who cradles him in his arms when he finally gives up on this world.

His mouth is hot against Byleth's skin as it happens, his body shaking, his breaths coming in short gasps while he drives as deeply as he can and gives Byleth everything he has to offer. 

It is uncertain, though, who is marking whom.

In the aftermath, Sylvain feels like he's been completely unraveled, the pleasure and the pain leaving him feeling raw and exposed, the sensations still thrumming through him like a live wire. 

Byleth is left exhausted too, and judging by the way he stares at the ceiling, unseeing, face tear stained, he must feel like a part of himself is missing. 

Sylvain is no better off. He collapses heavily on top of Byleth, his breath all ragged huffs. He buries his face against Byleth’s neck, his body still thrumming and shaking from the force of his own climax, numb and overstimulated and utterly destroyed, as if he’s been wrung out and left empty.

A thunderously quiet moment goes by, and then Sylvain feels trembling fingers card through his sweat-damp hair. Sylvain takes in a shaky breath, his body relaxing against Byleth, the tension slowly leaving him as the professor strokes his hair, the gentle touch more soothing than anything he’s ever felt.

He doesn’t deserve this caring gesture, the calming attention Byleth is never afraid and eager to give. 

Turns out, Sylvain was wrong all along. The Goddess exists, and Her mercy is infinite. 

Gathering every bit of will force he is capable of, ignoring his sore arms, Sylvain hauls himself up. He must look a mess, his hair falling in disarray around his face, his skin flushed and glistening with sweat. Slowly, Byleth looks up at him. He is not better off, yet he is a sight to behold no matter what, be it basking in the gentle first rays of sunlight of the day, face stained in his enemies’ blood, or tarnished and disheveled, absolutely beautiful in his wrecked vulnerability. His green eyes are less vibrant than before somehow, like a clouded sky.

That trembling hand comes up once more, to Sylvain’s cheek this time, and the boy shivers at the contact of Byleth’s warm palm, his eyes closing for a moment without his permission. A strange noise leaves him as he leans into the touch. He’s still breathing hard, his body completely pliant, letting Byleth’s touch him however he wants, tuck a strand of ginger hair behind his ear. Sylvain traces the bluish bruises in the professor’s neck in the meantime, his hands imprinted there.

“Why are you always like this?” Sylvain whispers, tired and sick of them both for two entirely different reasons. “You give and give and never say no.”

In a small voice, Byleth answers easily.

“Because I love you.”

How many people can he fit in that you, Sylvain wonders.

It’s so simple, but those words are nothing more than an indisputable fact. With nothing but hard proof before him, in the form of an angel with his wings torn to shreds scattered over the bed, Sylvain believes him.

”You shouldn’t,” he says either way.

Byleth shakes his head, reading his mind.

“I could never hate you.”

Once again, the Goddess has had mercy on him, even after he violated Her. Would it make Sylvain feel better if he received Her judgment instead, if She condemned him? Not that it matters. She made Her choice even if Sylvain can’t comprehend it. All he can do is pray She never changes Her mind. 

“Don’t leave me alone. Please,” Sylvain begs, feeling warm tears rolling down his cheeks. The droplets fall down onto Byleth’s face. Sylvain swallows hard, throat burning. “If you’re ever going to leave, just kill me before you go.”

Byleth’s eyes search his face, yet Sylvain can’t imagine what they could be looking for.

“I’m never going to leave you, Sylvain.”

Sylvain curls up next to him, pressing the side of his head against Byleth’s chest. There’s no heartbeat… it’s the strangest thing. Maybe this isn’t the real Byleth after all, yet another hallucination that Sylvain’s brain presents for him only for him to find an empty bed once he opens his eyes. 

“Promise me,” he demands either way.

The words are mumbled against Byleth’s skin, but they’re also a plea, a desperate need for reassurance that Byleth can’t refuse. He has no say in the matter.

This time, it takes a charged moment for Byleth to answer.

“I promise.”

Sylvain smiles. He doesn’t believe him.