Despite the development of technology and science, our spiritual development ...
I was simply outraged by the attitude towards a fairly good book. This is someone's work, sleepless nights and worries ... I still understand the indignation of readers from really unreadable works, but here ... Yes, this is not perfection in the lrf, (I reread them the darkness ...) and I think this story is worthy of life!
Commentators, why are you doing that? Yes, I agree, the beginning of the book is a bit delayed with these zombies, I don't like reading about them or watching any films at all, but I persistently endured the darkening of the beginning of the book, purely because of hostile harm, and I will say with confidence, the author is smart! With the comments left here, I completely disagree. The book is well written! The language is literate and well designed. And this is a great rarity! Pay attention to other works of this genre:
A bunch of cardboard mistakes and unnecessary text! The descriptions are drawn out on pages, and do not carry much meaning, the heroes forever - "shake their heads in agreement, making it clear that they agree with the applicant ..."
When I read this, my eye twitches nervously!
But in this book everything is written up to the mark. The author clearly long and hard carpelled over this story. Only for some reason, by spitting out bile on the world of this story, you miss such nuances ...
The plot itself is addictive and in some places directly captures the spirit of the experiences over the years. And the descriptions? I can't even single out even a part of the text as an example, I just can't decide, it's all well designed! Take even a simple, at first glance, description of a shower! In a few words, the author just revived the bad weather, and a couple of the heroine's comments about the stairs in the tavern? Yes, I was surprised that the author paid attention even to such a trifle as the heroine's feelings from climbing the stairs, moreover, in such a short time! And to be honest, even now, having closed my eyes, I clearly see that downpour, I even feel the sensation of solid steps under the witch's feet when she slowly climbed to the second floor.
Erotica is written well, even if it contains a little extra reflections of the heroine, like, "this is Sagi" ... or "He is almost like a man ..." and in my opinion, I would have decorated the love scene a little more in-depth and disclosed, but it's me, and the author of this work did everything in his own way and well. It is felt that the author is a passionate and accomplished woman. By the way, there are not many erotica. by the 33rd chapter I had read only two short, rather sensual scenes.
About harassment, Yes! they enrage, frighten and irritate, but! precisely as an empathizer of the main character in all the troubles that poured into a young, very young, witch who did not take place as an experienced witch! (God forbid to get into a similar situation ...) this is what you think about, reading these lines ... Do not forget, this is a book! History has its own world! Its own, albeit cruel, customs and rules ...
In the end, do not forget that this is the world of lfr, a women's novel, I do not understand the claims to this book and its author. It feels like there are people gathered here who have looked into this genre not for reading, but for throwing mud at a defenseless creation.
Chapter 1. About the zombie, the intern and the mother
If you see a zombie - do not make noise.
From school instructions.
___________________________________
Sometimes nothing foreshadows a catastrophe, and sometimes everything goes awry at once, as if fate gives one escape from a terrible fate.
In the pitch darkness, a four-sided lantern lying on the side of the road beckoned with light: through a single transparent wall, with its last strength, it illuminated a strangely curved man in a purple-black suit of a regular magician and a zombie grabbing his throat. Yellow reflections flickered on the puddles, boots, and gnarled fingers of the magician, drowned in the rips of clothing and decayed flesh.
The chomp was sometimes drowned out by the chirping of the cicadas.
What did I, an unfortunate trainee, a battle witch, do when I found the curator of my diploma in such, uh ... chewed form? She had to grab the wand and cast the binding spell. Or freezing. Or incineration. Or emergency repose. I should have. Instead, she whispered:
- Mom, - and dropped the heavy suitcases.
They splashed into the mud and sprayed the hem with spray.
Putting my hand over my mouth, I backed away.
"He won't notice me, everything will be okay." The rumble of the heartbeat drowned out the cicadas and the chomping, the breasts in the bodice became cramped. The wind enveloped me with a sweet, putrid smell.
The zombie slightly lowered the magician and, as if trying to kiss, stared at his open mouth.
Looks like the curator is cold and not good for dinner.
The zombie raised its rotting head - now the black eye sockets were facing me.
On the left, at the bottom of the road embankment, bushes crackled.
“It won't be another zombie. So, some non-predatory beast. "
Something climbed into the road, slid down, crunching branches. And it got out, thrashed in a chain. In the dark, you can't see what. "Tsong-tsok-tson" - a metallic chime was approaching. I backed up, backed up, backed up. Fearfully, like someone else's evil breath, the often exhaled air rustled.
The corpse crashed into the mud, and the light flickered in the puddle. The zombie stepped towards me, tripped over the curator and fell. The lantern, hit by an elbow, turned to the left - and illuminated a dumpy man in a blood-soaked shirt, his blond head tilted unnaturally to one side. Swinging, the zombie walked from the cart with the barrel and the horse sagging on the shafts. The light illuminated the wolf one and a half meters at the withers - a werewolf zombie, he was ringing with a chain on a collar; the eyes turned to me flashed.
But I also had an emergency call amulet ... a regular magician. And a flask with a braking compound. In a backpack somewhere, yeah. And according to the instructions, it should hang on the belt. Together with the wand. Which is heavy as a dog, and also in a backpack. But I’m not on duty, I’m only going to practice. Yes?
All three zombies were looking at me. Worse, they came to me. Top-top-top.
- Ahh! - I turned around and ran.
But I'm not on duty, yes, I'm dressed, accordingly, not in a work suit, but in an ankle-length dress and with two petticoats. My feet got tangled in the rain-heavy fabric, and I slipped into a puddle. This is how my graduate practice began. Short: zombies spanking from behind.
To die early, eighteen in total, they spanked, and I crawled. The skirt is heavy, and I crawled, grabbing the dirt with my elbows. I was short of breath, between strokes I tugged at my backpack, but the strap got stuck under my chest and the damned buckle would not open. The chest is large, the strap was not pulled over it - for the life of me.
"Maybe they won't notice me in the dark, huh?"
Purely theoretically, this is possible: the dress is dark blue, hands in the mud, reddish-brown hair should merge with the ground, if you do not turn my face - I’m all a dark spot on a dark background.
True, werewolves have a good sense of smell, but if this one had time to decompose, - it's a pity, I didn't really see it - then the sense of smell worsened. There is hope! I put my hands on the cold, slimy earth and pushed as hard as I could. The wet hem, stuck in the mud, pulled down, but, grabbing it, skidding and slipping, I gave it to the left: hide, hide faster, and then I could get the wand and conjure something.
It cracked and hissed from behind, and the road was flooded with bright orange light. She turned around: the cart was burning furiously, a path of dying flame connected it to the lantern flattened under the zombie's foot.
There were already four zombies.
And you can see me perfectly.
What a day this is, huh?
The day did not go well in the morning. This practice did not work out with distribution. Even earlier! Whole life! But now it’s quite horrible: this is my curator of my practice, whether it’s not okay… And zombies.
Five pieces: the fifth - lame, but huge - came out from behind a burning cart.
Mom ...
Oh-oh-oh, what to do? At our university, it was rather weak with practical studies. But I knew the theory: it is necessary to analyze the situation!
So. The visibility is good, the zombies are fixed on me, but until I run, they will not run either, which means we need to back away and, without panic, remove the backpack from the back, get the rod and solution.
I backed up and with shaking hands tugged at the fastener under my chest - today is just a day of regret about its volume. The lock was probably jammed with mud. What did it give me? But nothing.
More about the situation: two distant zombies poked at the curator, didn't look down - they would probably stumble. And the one that was already lying around was moving exactly onto the suitcases.
We divide the problems according to the prospects of their offensive: while we need to deal with two zombies. And this is not so scary, right?
The werewolf zombie bared its blood-stained teeth.
And this is called a calm region, right? It is called…
My foot slipped and I fell into a puddle. The werewolf ran. I spun around, substituting my back protected by a backpack, picked up my arms, legs, head - thanks to the reptile neighbor, who loves to let dogs down on passers-by, for the speed of reaction - and a couple of centners threw themselves at me, bones crackled.
- Rrr! - rumbled over the ear, and the chain tinkled, gigantic claws tore at the backpack, teeth clicked. I was pressed into the mud, into a puddle, another second - I would choke before I was bitten.
The werewolf growled, resting his paw above my head, and the terrible pressure on my back eased, I was able to breathe. The hem and leg were pulled, the fabric cracked, someone bit into the buttock, but the wet hem, two petticoats and pantaloons did not give in to human teeth.
"Mom ... mom, give birth to me back!"
Chapter 2. In which the trainee wants a werewolf zombie
___________________________________
Knowledge of algorithms for action in critical situations is the key to the survival of full-time specialists.
From the freshman tactics textbook.
___________________________________
They stood on the back of the head. Sinking into a puddle, I could hardly restrain myself from inhaling, struggling to rise. Hands slipped, muscles cut from the tension, but the paw pressed into the water.
- Whoa! the werewolf howled.
They got off my head, I got up and sucked in a suffocating air, sharp to coughing and cutting eyes.
On the way, the braking composition spilled silver. A gnawed flask lay nearby, on a tattered boot, the werewolf slowly rolled on the ground.
Clutching my nose with my sleeve, prickly with grains of dirt, I looked around and buried away: two zombies were crawling towards me, the rest were slowly moving their legs along a silvery puddle. In the mouth of the left crawler stuck out a piece of my blue road dress - that's who bit the buttock, you brute!
Zombies crept into the light streams of the train and slowed down.
She did not dare to move away - suddenly there were still zombies nearby. The air soaked in the composition tore at the throat worse than sore throat. The back was covered with pain, and the bitten buttock ached somehow suspiciously.
The zombies were numb. We, students, saw this only in the first year: the alchemist on the beetle rats showed the dependence of the size of the evil, the concentration of the solution and the speed. The composition is expensive, used in severe cases and usually in small quantities.
And then it was spreading out - a year's supply, which I have to transfer to the staff magician in payment for practice. The zombies froze. If they didn’t eat it, my dear dean will eat it, then the rector will eat it, the rest will be gnawed by the bankers, who will have to borrow at the expense of future salaries to buy new stock.
Maybe collect from the ground? Nowhere. Or run away and change your name? Not the first time. But then you will have to study again or work without a license.
What is more profitable: buy new documents with credit money and unlearn it again, or compensate for the spilled and live in bondage? A cold drop splashed on my nose, on my cheek, again on my nose. Will they give me a loan?
The downpour fell sharply, like a wall, and instantly scattered the silvery composition.
The zombies perked up.
I knew the theory, yeah. And they didn’t write for me “not to relax until the work is finished”? It hurts to move, but you have to. Gritting her teeth, she turned around: there should be a wand among the things that fell out of the backpack. The barrel of oil was still burning, light streaming through the gray streams, illuminating me for the zombies, but not illuminating the wand.
It's huge, how can you lose it? The zombies were advancing, I was frantically groping in the mud, my teeth clinked against my palm, I staggered back, backed away into the darkness. The rain nailed me to the ground, the backpack seemed impossibly heavy.
Heavy?
I put my palms behind my back - the handle! Cold, slippery, thick wand handle! He got tangled up in the scraps of his backpack! I tugged, pulled, and twisted the wand, whispering a spell of obedience. The zombie was crawling. The wand is stuck tight.
The wall of water almost hid the werewolf.
Pull yourself together!
The zombie held out his hand, I rushed back, the rod popped out.
I was stuck in the mud. The rain poured, killing the last flashes of fire. I rummaged through the rags of my backpack - there was no rod.
And there are zombies.
I got close to my leg. She kicked feverishly, the heel hitting the hard.
"Move!" - I was suffocating.
The rain died down. The last drops rustled in the darkness. Footsteps squelched.
So, am I a war witch or who? I will not allow myself to gnaw, buttocks with a knee and so itch.
I felt the rags behind my back - it's empty, I fumbled on the ground - a rod! I fell out. Dear, beloved, free student wand, a mace without thorns: “If you have thorns, you will kill yourself,” the university master explained. But I can handle it without thorns: it's too early to die. Feet touched. I struck with a backhand, once again - crunchingly smacked the broken skull, the blow struck in the muscles.
The hem pulled down, but I got up.
For several hours no one had passed the road, a seasoned regular magician was killed here, so you cannot count on help and other educational indulgences - only on yourself.
Regular specialists just die: there are evil spirits, but there is no help.
And I'm not a full-time specialist yet, it's too early for me. Early, to whom I speak!
But how the knees and hands were shaking, drawn by the rod.
I cannot cope with such a crowd alone.
I need a werewolf.
Anna Zamoskovnaya
Nightmare practice for a nightmare witch
© Anna Zamoskovnaya, text, 2017
© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017
* * *Chapter 1. About the zombie, the intern and the mother
If you see a zombie - do not make noise.
From school instructions
Sometimes there is no sign of a disaster. Sometimes everything goes awry at once, as if fate gives a chance to escape from a terrible fate.
In the pitch darkness, a four-sided lantern, lying on the side of the road, beckoned with light. Through the only transparent wall, he used his last strength to illuminate a strangely arched man in a purple-black suit of a regular magician and a zombie grabbing his throat. Yellow reflections flickered on the puddles, boots and gnarled fingers of the magician, drowned in the rips of his shirt and decomposed flesh.
The chomping of the jaws was sometimes drowned out by the chirping of the cicadas.
What did I, an unfortunate trainee, a battle witch, do when I found the curator of my diploma in such an uh ... chewed form? She had to grab the wand and cast the binding spell. Or freezing. Or incineration. Or emergency repose. I should have. Instead, she whispered:
- Mom, - and dropped the heavy suitcases.
They splashed into the mud and sprayed the hem with spray.
Putting my hand over my mouth, I backed away.
He won't notice me, everything will be okay.
The heartbeat drowned out the cicadas and the chomping, the chest in the bodice became tight. The wind enveloped me with a sweet putrid scent.
The zombie slightly lowered the magician and, as if trying to kiss, stared at his open mouth.
Looks like the curator is cold and not good for dinner.
He died ... like that, suddenly, alone. Restless.
The zombie raised its rotting head - now the black eye sockets were turned at me.
On the left, at the bottom of the road embankment, bushes crackled.
This is not another zombie. So, some non-predatory little animal.
Something climbed onto the road, slid down the embankment, crunching branches. And it got out, thrashed in a chain. In the dark you can't see what. "Tsong-tsok-tson" - a metallic chime was approaching. I backed up, backed up, backed up. Scary, like someone else's evil breath, the often exhaled air rustled.
The curator's corpse fell into the mud, the reflections of light flickered in the puddle and froze. The zombie stepped towards me, tripped over the curator and fell. The lantern, hit by an elbow, turned to the left - and illuminated the road, a cart with a cistern-barrel and a horse sagging on the shafts standing on the side of the road, a stumpy man in a blood-soaked shirt hobbled past them. His blond head tilted unnaturally to one side, leaving no doubt that he was dead. The light also illuminated the wolf one and a half meters at the withers - a werewolf zombie. It was a chain on a collar and rang. The eyes turned to me flashed.
But I also had an emergency call amulet ... a regular magician. And a flask with a braking compound. In a backpack somewhere, yeah. And according to the instructions, it should hang on the belt. Together with the wand. Which is heavy as a dog, and also in a backpack. But I’m not on duty, I’m only going to practice. Yes?
All three zombies were looking at me. Worse, they came to me. Top-top-top.
- Ahh! - I turned around and ran.
But I'm not on duty, and I'm dressed accordingly. Not a work suit, but an ankle-length dress and two petticoats. My feet got tangled in the rain-heavy fabric, and I slipped into a puddle. This is how my graduate practice began. Short. Zombies spanked from behind.
To die early: eighteen in total. They spanked, and I crawled. The skirt is heavy, and I crawled, grabbing the dirt with my elbows. I was short of breath, between strokes I tugged at my backpack, but the strap got stuck under my chest, and the damned buckle would not open. The chest is large, the strap was not pulled over it - for the life of me.
Maybe they won't notice me in the dark, huh?
Purely theoretically, this is possible: the dress is dark blue, hands covered in mud, reddish-brown hair should merge with the ground, if you do not turn your face. I am the whole dark spot on a dark background.
True, werewolves have a good sense of smell. But if this one had time to decompose a little, then the scent deteriorated. There is hope! I put my hands on the cold slimy ground and pushed as hard as I could. The wet, muddy hem pulled down. Grabbing it, skidding and slipping, I passed to the left: hide, hide faster, and then I could get the rod and conjure something.
It cracked and hissed from behind, and the road was flooded with bright orange light. She turned: the cart was on fire. Between her and the lantern flattened under the zombie's foot, a path of flame faded. It looks like something combustible was pouring out of the barrel, the oil must have reached the point of fire. Now I am in full view.
The fourth zombie was walking towards us.
What a day this is, huh?
The day did not go well in the morning. This practice did not work out with distribution. Even earlier! Whole life! But now there’s some absolutely horror: on the road lies a dead curator of my, whether it’s not okay, practice ... And zombies are approaching.
Five pieces.
The fifth - lame but huge - came out from behind the burning cart.
Mom ...
Oh-oh-oh, what to do? At our university, it was rather weak with practical studies. But I knew the theory: it is necessary to analyze the situation!
So. The visibility is good, the zombies are fixed on me, but until I run, they will not run either. So, you need to back away and, without panic, remove your backpack from your back, get a rod and solution.
I backed up and with shaking hands tugged at the fastener under my chest - today is just a day of regret about its volume. The lock is jammed, probably because of the mud. What did it give me? But nothing.
More about the situation: two distant zombies poked at the curator lying on the road, they did not look down - they would probably stumble over the corpse. And the one that was already lying around was moving exactly onto the suitcases.
We divide the problems by the time of their occurrence: while we need to deal with two zombies. And this is not so scary, right?
The werewolf zombie bared its blood-stained teeth.
And this is called a calm region, right? It is called…
My foot slipped, I fell into a puddle. The werewolf ran. I spun around, substituting my back protected by a backpack, picked up my arms, legs, head - thanks to the reptile neighbor, who loves to let dogs down on passers-by for the speed of reaction, and a couple of centners threw themselves at me, my bones crackled.
- Rrr! - rumbled over the ear, and the chain tinkled, gigantic claws tore at the backpack, teeth clicked. I was pressed into the mud, into a puddle, another second - I would choke before I was bitten.
The werewolf growled, resting his paw above my head, and the terrible pressure on my back eased, I was able to breathe. The hem and leg were pulled, the fabric cracked, someone bit into the buttock, but the wet hem, two petticoats and pantaloons did not give in to human teeth.
Mom ... Mom, give birth to me back!
Chapter 2. In which the trainee wants a werewolf zombie
Sinking into a puddle, I could hardly restrain myself from inhaling, tried to get up. Hands slipped, muscles cut from the tension, but the paw pressed the face into the water.
- Whoa! The werewolf howled.
They let go of my head, I got up and sucked in the suffocating air, sharp to coughing and sharp eyes.
On the road, the braking train spilled silver. A gnawed flask lay nearby, on a tattered boot that had fallen from a backpack. The werewolf rolled slowly on the ground.
Covering my nose with my sleeve, prickly with grains of dirt, I looked around and buried away. Two zombies, apparently stumbling over the curator, crawled up to me, the rest slowly moved their legs in a silvery puddle. In the mouth of the left crawler stuck out a piece of my blue road dress - that's who bit the buttock, you brute!
The zombies crawled into the light streams of the braking compound and slowed down.
She did not dare to move away - suddenly there were still zombies nearby. The air soaked in the composition tore at my throat worse than a sore throat. The back ached, and the bitten buttock ached somehow suspiciously.
The zombies were numb. We, students, saw this only in the first year. The alchemist on the beetle rats showed the dependence of the size of the evil, the concentration of the solution and the speed. The composition is expensive, used in severe cases and usually in small quantities.
And then it was spreading out - a year's supply, which I have to transfer to the staff magician in payment for practice.
The zombies froze. If they didn’t eat it, my dear dean will eat it, then the rector, the rest will be gnawed by the bankers, who will have to borrow at the expense of future salaries to buy a new supply.
Maybe collect from the ground? Nowhere. Or run away and change your name? Not the first time. But then you will have to study again or work without a license.
What is more profitable: buy new documents with credit money and unlearn it again, or compensate for the spilled and live in bondage? A cold drop splashed on my nose, on my cheek, again on my nose. Will they give me a loan?
The downpour fell sharply, like a wall, and instantly scattered the silvery composition.
The zombies perked up.
I knew the theory, yeah. And they didn’t write for me “not to relax until the work is finished”? It hurts to move, but you have to. Gritting her teeth, she turned around. There should be a wand among the things that fell out of the backpack. The barrel of oil was still burning, light streaming through the gray streams, illuminating me for the zombies, but not illuminating the wand.
Big and fat "but": what if zombies attack ordinary people?
Not that I'm prone to heroism, but there is one full-time magician in this officially calm district. According to rumors, it’s generally tight with wizards here: they don’t like the atmosphere, all sorts of vibes, only werewolves took root, - on a voluntary-compulsory basis, - but their territory is further away.
In short, there is really no one to fight the ghouls, and my duty is to put them to rest (and in the diploma, among the recommendations to propose to return massive spells against zombies to the training program). Inaction can result in the deaths of ordinary people.
Action - by my death, and inaction - by strangers.
Several zombies went into the darkness, five rubbed at the fire. The others looked around. Soon hunger will pull them further.
And in the morning the children will go to school, the traders will go to the market, the shepherds will drive the animal out. Physically, to put to rest - to break the neck there, to smash the head - theoretically anyone can, but how many will have enough strength? And if they attack from the back? If there are no weapons? And the untreated dead will also begin to rise ... and we will have a local trouble with an obscene name.
I rubbed my bitten backside, sighed: "Oh, I'll regret it." And she began to think how to win this crowd.
Quick repose, alas, is not an option: for the third time in a row, zombies will smell me and, if memory serves, they will go berserk. Yes, there seems to have been a footnote in the small print that zombies rage from the emanations of repose magic and sense the instrument emitting them. Somehow I didn't want to turn the wand into a decoy.
And from the third time? And was there a "row" in the textbook? A?! My theory is worse than I thought. But I am not supposed to work without cover for two more years after completing my studies, so ...
On the other hand: zombies are here, and I am here, and ...
The werewolf jumped out of the darkness, eyes flashing. He moved his huge dark nose and, strumming a chain, grinning, went in my direction.
The zombie jumped on me, slid down and rushed into the bushes. Ugh! Body beguiled. Spun the dead man. He climbed the wet slope, clung to the grass, and I ...
The werewolf, glistening with wet fur, pushed the zombies apart. A dark colossus was advancing, and the rod seemed heavy, hands did not obey.
A young and unlucky student witch arrives in a quiet town for undergraduate practice, but on the way she meets an oil painting - a crowd of zombies eats her curator. Naturally, this honest company decides to take a bite with it, but at the university, as luck would have it, they did not teach what to do with such an abundance of evil spirits, reassuring them that for a long time zombies had not met in crowds.
Now the dropout witch will have to cope with the evil spirits and find out what is happening in this not so quiet town.
From the very first lines I got the feeling that I was reading Elena Zvezdnaya - either it just coincided, or Russian fantasy is really so similar.
She smiled so that the muscles ached from the tension, but she could not help smiling! She puffed out her solid chest and raised her head. Fighting witch me, defeating the zombie army, or who? Without a diploma, however, "or who", but the zombie won!
And the further, the more similarities arose with the "Real Black Witch" Star - in both cases the witch - the daughter of noble parents escapes, settles in some wilderness and urgently looks for a man to lose her virginity. But, if Zvezdnaya has a clearly expressed detective line, and the search for a father for the future little witch occurs insofar as Zamoskovnaya's heroine is simply obsessed with sex and is ready to spread her legs in front of everyone she meets, calling carnal pleasures a witch's rite of enhancing the gift, which, however, does not interfere she is hard to get out of herself.
“Not all witches are like that.
- True? - Mathis raised his eyebrows in disappointment. “And don’t you give me even just once?”
- No.
- Even half a bump? His eyes widened in fear.
- What lump? I blinked.
- Well, this one, - he reached out to unbutton his pants.
The story is written vividly, but after the Star is perceived as a parody, where zombies and sex were thrown into the witch's story for comic relief, which looks absurd.
But, if until the middle of the book I still thought to put a three, then the episode with the heroine's harassment to the old man, who never got up, just buried this story.
The procedure was somehow unjustifiably delayed.
Sighing, I looked over my shoulder. Examining my ass, puffing and turning purple, Jamet desperately tugged at the wrinkled, shorter than the index finger, the household.
- Now, now, - he poked the dark head, spat on his fingers and wiped it off. - Now we will raise.
Apparently, the author wanted to throw out his fantasies, but he was ashamed or perhaps did not have enough ideas to write a particular love story, so that slutty heroine was placed in the fantasy world, covering all the nonsense with a seemingly modest fairy tale.
And despite all the attempts of the author to return the narrative on the theme of the mysterious villain, the heroine's libido still remained in the foreground like a red flag before the eyes.
Plus, the book breaks off in mid-sentence, but there is no desire at all to know what will happen next, so 2⭐️
