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Summary
One strand hung across the curved bridge of his nose, cradling his cheek until he made eye contact with the crowd and it slipped back into place across his forehead. He didn’t stutter when his deep voice growled out from his chest to check the mic, and the pure rumble of it sent a shiver down Pickles' spine. If his voice was naturally ripping up his esophagus like that, his screaming must rival the snarl of an angry Cane Corso. If he bore his teeth, lips curling up around them, he would resemble one as well.
