He’s tired of running. He’s run so much in his life already but here he is, running again. Trapped in the middle of a crowd running for their miserable lives. Just as he is.
Only, he’s done nothing wrong. Not knowingly, that is. Not this time. He would never have ventured down to Port Town's Level 130 if the ‘
’ that went with the request – summons. order. whatever. non-declinable in any case. – had not scared him so much.
The serrated blade immediately pressed against his belly when he sits down to figure out the faulty bits brings back memories he doesn’t care all that much about,
and so he’s looking into a malfunctioning system he’s not supposed to be looking into when the masked men storm in.
Fortunately, he’s not far from the back door and he runs with the others the moment the knife drops away.
He’s not a very good runner and so he stumbles. Of course he does. Slithers, loses his balance, falls.
Curls himself into a ball, tries to protect his head with his hands, desperately hoping not to be kicked into a pulp by the countless feet trampling past him, around him and, oh, over him.
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