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Summary
The sound of twigs snapping makes his eyes open and he’s greeted with a tall, shadowy figure. For a moment, Kavinsky wonders if he fell asleep and pulled a nightmare back with him but the moon cuts a harsh highlight across a familiar face. Ronan Lynch stands in front of him, dressed in his usual funeral attire, complete with a massive black bird on his shoulder, tearing holes in his muscle-tee.
“Wake up, fuckweasel,” Ronan greets with barely any inflection.
