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Summary
“This one looks…it’s bad, Dream.”
“I know.”
“A lot of these do.”
“I know.”
Punz didn’t say anything else. Dream knew what Punz was seeing. He didn’t know what it all looked like, per se, but he remembered each strike, slash, carve, burn, where whole patches of his skin would slough off like putty and come back darker, warped to the touch. Burning, Quackity had learned quickly, was what panicked Dream the most.