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Summary
Bob sat at the kitchen table, pressing the pad of his finger into the prong of a fork. His gaze was far away; an uncharacteristic glare set into his features. The shadows stretched, creeping up the wall, behind him.
He needed to destroy something. He needed to wreck something. He didn't care what it was or how badly it ruined his life. He didn't deserve a nice life anyway.
"Morning, Bob," John Walker said, snapping him out of his thoughts. He strolled over to the sink and started filling up a cup.
Bob smirked. Perfect.

