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Summary
“It's bad luck to fill a home with screams late at night, or hotel, as it were,” Alastor said. “So yes, I suppose I'll be a therapist of some sort if it will be beneficial to you.”
Angel scrutinized Alastor's face. There was exhaustion there, smile seemingly held by thin strands of thread, tempting to snap:
“Tell me what you fear, Mon Cher.”
OR: Alastor is in Angel Dust's dreams.