Beautiful Soul
But tonight, none of that mattered.
As I went closer to the bar, my fears kept pulling me back, but no! I grabbed the bottle. "Johnny Walker," the label read. With a twisted grin, I uncapped it and placed it against my lips. I didn’t sip. I gulped. I kept drinking until a sharp pain tore through my chest.
I gasped, pressing a hand against my ribs. But then, I laughed again—because Michael Finsch was a disgusting bastard, and I was an even bigger fool.
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