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Summary
“An unusual laughter you have.”
Michael’s face turns red, and he fiddles with the hems of his sweater, his hair, bites his lip, scratches his neck, all small telltales of a person about to combust from anxiety.
“What?” Elias inquires, leaning closer, “you’re not fond of your own laughter? The sound of your own voice perhaps?”
Series
- Part 2 of There is nothing but dread
