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The door opened. Nate came in with - of all things - a blood soaked machete. Matt was in the middle of reaching for his gun. Briefly, he hesitated, before picking it up and scrambling to his feet. Slowly, he started to back away from Nate. He raised the gun towards him, finger on the trigger.

All he really had to do was pull.

"Nate," he said. He tried to make idle, worthless conversation. "How's it going?"
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Amen · Storage Closet