Chance stood in front of Elliot, one foot planted forward, gun lazily aimed at the dark corner where the killer hid “Any second now,” he muttered with a grin, like he was waiting for a late guest to a party. Elliot silently handed him a healing pizza, and Chance bit into it mid-aim, crumbs falling as he chuckled “Perfect—fuel for stunning psychos” he said, tapping the gun with his free hand, almost daring the killer to step out
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