As Castiel came within viewing distance of the sprawling maze of concrete and metal, a new and unexpected obstacle stopped him in his tracks.
Interesting, he thought. He hadn't expected the Sanctuary to be warded.
True to Maggie's warnings, the Saviors' stronghold was indeed heavily fortified, but beyond the barbed wire fences and guard towers lay powerful protective spells, strong enough to keep even the likes of him at bay. Castiel could neither approach it nor see beyond the limits of his vessel's human senses.
While he pondered the problem at hand, a nearby animated corpse – a young woman, once upon a time – took issue with his presence. With a flick of his wrist, he severed the creature's brain stem.
Show-off, he could almost hear Dean saying, a familiar pleased grin on his face. But Castiel quickly pushed the thought aside, knowing better than to let himself indulge in distractions.
The Sanctuary's defenses drummed at the edge of his consciousness, an assortment of spells layered and woven together like misshapen puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit together. Invisible to the human eye, Castiel extended a thread of his grace, seeking out weaknesses or flaws.
Approaching a defensive barrier was not comparable to hitting a brick wall. Not for angels, or any other being who existed across numerous dimensions. In theory, Castiel could push through most wards… until his grace sizzled, crackled, and ultimately fractured, for it would mean he had entered a pocket reality that was fundamentally at odds with his very existence. Physical barriers, therefore, were typically considered redundant.
Which was precisely what made these defenses so surprising. Clearly constructed by someone with both the skill and means to execute them, this magic held a discernible shape – a certain curvature he could almost reach out and touch; a dome of protection encircling the entire sprawling compound.
Corporeal enough to attack, perhaps.
Human ingenuity truly was a wonder. These wards seemed to embody that brilliance, crafted by someone both incredibly gifted and yet constrained by human perception – as if their creator simply could not conceive of a shield that wasn't a tangible barrier. Adding mass might have strengthened the wards, but it also introduced potential vulnerabilities.
He had wondered what had become of that self-proclaimed researcher, Victor. That man had believed himself quite clever, hadn't he? With his odd contraptions and eclectic use of magic, he had pursued Castiel and the children alongside his band of hunters, gleefully shooting Castiel with a bullet forged from the melted remnants of an angel's blade – only to flee when Castiel was forced to expel all the corrupted energy he'd absorbed during his year of captivity.
He truly did not know how he had survived that. Castiel had often pondered whether his vessel – or his body, as he'd come to think of it – would reanimate after his death. He assumed so. After all, it was infected with the same airborne virus that had spread across the world – an earthly weapon untouched by neither Heaven nor Hell.
Any agent of Heaven who might have sensed that implosion would have assumed him lost – if any of them even cared about what was happening down here on Earth. Perhaps that researcher had done him a favor, after all.
And now, it seemed, Victor had found a new home among the Saviors. This certainly explained the strange wards, as well as the Saviors' eagerness to exhume the bodies buried in Alexandria. Castiel didn't know who this Negan was, but everything he'd learned suggested that Victor's knowledge and skills could be devastating in his hands.
For peace, both men had to be destroyed. Castiel's grace gently traced the curve of the invisible dome, sensing its layered protections. But first, he needed to find a way to reach them. Brute force was out of the question, but…
He could tap into the prayers of those within. More than that, he could lean into the subsonic frequencies, using the physical distance as a crutch, and turn what was normally a one-way signal into a two-way connection, allowing him to observe and subtly influence what lay inside the compound. As difficult and unpleasant as it was, the technique could provide a way to observe the Sanctuary's defenses from within.
Tuning into Scott's prayer came easily – it was meant for him, after all. He found the boy in an enclosed area, the place he kept referring to as the pit, fenced in with the dead. He could feel Scott's exhaustion, his aches and pains, smelled the decay that had infected his every waking moment.
/"I dunno why they think leaving me out here with the dead all night is some kind of punishment. I'd take this over my cell any day. It stinks back there! Smells like… well, I guess it smells like me."/
Through Scott's eyes, Castiel saw the world in fractured images: the restless shuffle of the undead, the scrape of his own weary steps, and his brother's corpse – Jake's remains strung up to a fence, crude chains cutting into his emaciated arms, gaunt and hollow and –
Castiel withdrew. He took a moment to compose himself.
No, Scott's prayers wouldn't do. But there were others.
Normally, he found it easy to tune them out – unless they were directed at him or particularly loud, prayers were little more than background noise, a broadcast he could switch on and off at will. But now, he could hear them all, each one a distinct thread of thought, from fervent pleas to quiet, desperate whispers, woven together in an endless, unrelenting hum. He began cycling through those prayers, bouncing from one consciousness to another.
/"Take me next, God."/
The man lay on a hard cot, his back pressing uncomfortably into the thin mattress, his muscles aching from the day's labor. Yet, sleep evaded him. He stared up at the ceiling, far above, where rusted walkways shuddered and creaked with every passerby.
Sighing, the man turned to his side, his gaze catching on a dark shape on the wall – a sigil, Castiel thought, but the man's eyesight was too poor to tell. Soon, the man fell into restless sleep.
Castiel moved on to the next person.
/"…san Miguel Arcángel, defiéndenos en la batalla; sé nuestro amparo contra las perversidades y asechanzas del demonio…"/
A young woman offered a hushed, urgent prayer of protection to the Archangel Michael. Castiel wished he could tell her not to bother.
/"Please give me strength not to punch Davey in the face tomorrow."/
The voice flashed in his consciousness, slight and fleeting.
/"Bismillah."/
A young man quietly thanked Allah for his meal, and as he bit into his dinner of canned beans for the third night in a row, his soul silently longed for pizza.
/"Lord, forgive me for what I did today. I didn't mean to. I swear, I didn't mean to."/
The woman sat on the toilet, pants and underwear bunched at her ankles. Her legs had long gone numb, but she refused to leave the stall, her refuge. Her prayer was crystal clear, even if her vision was blurry. Sensitive, this woman – attuned, like someone with magic in their distant ancestry. Castiel could glimpse the faint shimmer of magic around her, could almost feel the curvature of the protective spells above. Almost.
Concentrating, Castiel attempted to draw upon the woman's untapped potential, but the energy was too volatile. His grace collided with the warding, ricocheting back. The light fixture above the woman's head exploded.
She screamed.
He withdrew, then kept going on.
/"If you're up there, God, or whoever the hell's listening, I need a favor. Before you send my ass down to hell, just let me have one thing: give me the chance to tell that ASSHOLE Negan to go fuck himself. Amen."/
The man trudged along the courtyard, ignoring his companion's chatter. His knees ached, and his stomach churned in pain, his latest meal disagreeing with him. He was supposed to be on patrol, but nothing ever moved here at this hour, and this was his eighth night on guard duty in a row. In his mind, he pictured landing a fist square on Negan's face, breaking that toothy grin once and for all.
The image was so vivid that Castiel caught a glimpse of it himself – a flickering, disjointed vision of a broad, taunting smile. It lingered for a heartbeat, then faded as if it had never been there at all.
Castiel continued to drift from prayer to prayer, fragments of human lives brushing against his consciousness in fleeting pulses. Soft pleas from the weary, prayers for safety, and desperate promises flowed past him. Some were instinctive, the human mind unconsciously releasing energy into the ether, unnoticed by all except those, like Castiel, who could interpret them. As Enid often argued, it wasn't entirely unlike telepathy.
Not all of them were verbal. As Castiel navigated the stream of frequencies, he found the priest from Alexandria – the one who had once urged him to stand aside in the face of the Saviors' savagery. Father Gabriel.
The priest was exhausted and wary, his heart skipping a beat as a man – yes, Victor, just as Castiel had suspected – dragged a knife across his palm.
Interesting.
At last, Castiel anchored himself back in his body, bringing his fingers to his temples to massage away the lingering disorientation. None of the prayers had been particularly revealing, but they had offered just enough fragments to piece together a clearer understanding of the situation.
Turning his attention back to the wards, he studied the intricate structure encasing the Saviors' compound – layers of magic, both old and new, crafted and flaunted by a brilliant mind. But therein lay the problem with savants: their pride in their intellect often blinded them to their own mistakes.
The dome encapsulated the compound entirely, with layers upon layers of magic sealing everything within. But it remained a physical barrier, not a metaphysical one, and angels were not confined to a single plane of existence. He could extend his influence beyond the defenses, attacking without ever stepping inside the gates. Moreover, anything Castiel would unleash upon the Sanctuary would be trapped inside, amplifying and reverberating within the barrier like a magical greenhouse effect.
The prayers were one conduit, yes, but there were others. Castiel was old, very old. He had once laid siege to Hell itself. What was a single human settlement in comparison?
He was so absorbed in his contemplations that he nearly missed the low hum of the approaching vehicle. For a moment, he wondered if Sasha and Maggie had returned, but no, the roll of tires on gravel sounded distinctly different. Without turning, he shifted his attention, focusing on the vehicle and the voices of its occupants.
"Woah, check this out," Castiel overheard a rough voice say as the vehicle slowed to a crawl.
"Who the fuck is that?"
"It's just a dead one," another replied in a murmur, sounding half-asleep.
"He's alive," a woman chimed in, her voice low and guarded.
A pause hung in the air before the first voice spoke again, more wary this time. "Well, he's creepy as shit."
The woman seemed to scoff. "Are you always this jumpy, Jeff?"
"Eat shit, Mara," Jeff huffed. The sound of cracking joints followed, along with a long sigh. "Let's just get this over with. I want my four hours of shuteye before the missus starts bitching."
Another voice cut in, amused. "I don't know what that woman sees in you."
"I'm a catch," Jeff deadpanned. "Alright, listen up. I'm gonna go see what this guy wants and then–" he chuckled– "I'mma blow his brains out like a fucking piñata."
"Are you sure about this? Negan might want to talk to him," a new voice chimed in.
"Negan isn't here," Jeff shot back. "And it's too goddamn late for prisoners."
There was a brief pause. "We're Negan," the woman said, her warning clear.
"Exactly," Jeff replied. "We make the decisions. Right now, I'm deciding we don't need another mouth to feed. Let's keep it simple."
They brought the car to a complete stop behind Castiel, and if he were human, the headlights would've likely blinded him. He glanced over his shoulder to find a large van, similar to the one he and the children had used during the initial leg of their journey. Seven figures emerged – six men and one woman – each holding their weapons with practiced ease, their expressions and postures radiating a clear menace.
It was, as Dean might have put it, adorable.
The one he presumed was Jeff strode forward, a shotgun perched on his shoulder. "You lost?" he called.
"No," Castiel replied evenly, returning his attention to the sprawling compound ahead. "I'm exactly where I need to be."
Jeff chuckled. "Well, isn't that nice." The unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped echoed behind Castiel as the man shifted his stance. "Turn around. Let's see your hands."
Castiel remained perfectly still, paying these strangers little mind. The Sanctuary's defenses shimmered with power, nearly visible in the night's sky. He wondered if the Saviors could feel it on some level, or if their senses were too dull to perceive what was right in front of them.
"Hey! You deaf, asshole?" Jeff snapped, irritation flaring. He stepped closer, the barrel of his shotgun aimed at the back of Castiel's head. "I said turn around or–"
"You'll 'blow my brains out like a fucking piñata'?" Castiel quoted with a raised eyebrow, looking over his shoulder.
The ones behind Jeff frowned, glancing at one another. Jeff seemed taken aback but quickly recovered, his eyes narrowing, the shotgun held steady. "Yeah, that's right."
"Crazy how you caught that," Mara spoke up. She was a slight woman, but she held herself with a quiet confidence, shoulders squared and eyes sharp. She watched Castiel keenly, as if trying to decipher a puzzle. "Why are you out here?" she asked, ignoring the ugly glare Jeff shot her way.
"I've come for Negan," Castiel replied.
Jeff grinned sharply. "Well, you found him," he chuckled, his crooked teeth glinting in the moonlight. "I'm Negan, asshole."
Slowly, Castiel turned to face the group in full. "No, you're not," he said, "but you can deliver my message."
The man's crooked grin faltered, but anger soon took over his fear. He aimed his shotgun. "Yeah? And just who the fuck are you?"
"It would be easier if I showed you," Castiel offered.
Father Gabriel never imagined he would ever end up in the heart of the Saviors' stronghold, standing over a sprawling courtyard while calmly stirring honey into his steaming cup of tea.
It was quite shocking, really, just how much freedom he'd been granted. When the Saviors had first grabbed him, Gabriel assumed he would end up in a dark cell, subjected to the same abuses Daryl had suffered. Instead, he was treated more like a guest. Constantly under watch, yes, but still a guest nonetheless.
Perhaps they thought that, being a priest, Gabriel was harmless – an easy mark for manipulation. Perhaps they assumed he wouldn't memorize the layout of each massive hall or time exactly how long it took the night patrol to complete each round.
Ten minutes, in fact.
As the guards passed beneath the concrete platform, Gabriel raised the cup to his lips, gently blowing, sending steam curling into the cool night air. He stole a superstitious glance at his watch, noting the time. Ten minutes – the perfect span for his tea to cool, he mused. Lowering the cup, he patiently waited for the guards' next rotation.
It was almost peaceful out here in the dead of night. The air was crisp and cool above the lingering stench of death rising from the walker pens across the yard. Gabriel knew he should be resting; he had another long day ahead of him – reciting verses, casting blessings, and reading transliterated passages in languages he could not speak. Yet his mind was restless, constantly flashing back to that harrowing scene in Negan's torture chamber.
Gabriel took a deep breath, trying to purge the scent of sulfur from his mind. He kept replaying those moments in his thoughts – the demon's blackened eyes, the steam rising from its flesh, the sound it made as it died. He'd felt its evil.
Or perhaps, the evil had been there to begin with, wearing a handsome face and a boyish, toothy grin. Was he wise to align himself with Negan, or was he merely placing one evil over another?
"Heavenly Father," he prayed softly, raising his face to the clear night sky and closing his eyes. "Grant me strength to resist temptation and the wisdom to discern the truth from lies."
A flash of light pierced through his closed eyelids, making Gabriel's heart skip a beat. His eyes snapped open just as another streak of lightning split the distant sky. His lips curved into a faint smile. "Thank you," he whispered to the clear, star-dotted heavens. He didn't yet understand the meaning of the sign, but he was certain that God would show him the way.
The guards reappeared, right on schedule. Ten minutes exactly, he noted. Smiling, Gabriel raised the cup to his lips.
Only to let it slip from his grasp with a startled yelp. The cup shattered at his feet, hot liquid hissing as it met the cold concrete. He stared down, dumbfounded, his tongue still throbbing from the searing heat.
How…?
"Alright there, Pops?" a woman's voice rang out.
He turned to see Laura standing in the doorway, her usual sour expression in place. Tonight, though, dark shadows circled her eyes. They hadn't exchanged a word since Negan's… display. He wondered if she too was haunted by what they had witnessed.
Hand covering his burning mouth, Gabriel gave a quick nod. "My mistake," he mumbled, gesturing to the shattered glass, his words slurred by his throbbing tongue. He swallowed hard, pushing a smile through the pain. Perhaps he could turn this into an opportunity. "Couldn't sleep either?" he asked, his smile warm despite the sting. "You know, if you ever wish to talk…"
Laura cut him off with a snort. "Save it." She glanced at his bandaged hand, brows furrowing. "What happened there?"
Gabriel's thumb brushed over the white bandage. "Nothing serious," he responded.
"This place is a minefield," Laura said, motioning toward a rusted window frame. "When's the last time you had a tetanus shot? More than five years?"
"Are you a doctor?" Gabriel asked, his tone lightly teasing, hoping to spark some kind of connection. It never hurt to have an ally.
"My dad was," she said with a shrug. "I was a med student." She shrugged again, as if it didn't matter.
Gabriel raised his eyebrows, his gaze lingering on the young woman's prominent neck tattoo and glinting nose ring. It was hard to picture her in a white coat, stethoscope around her neck. "I'm sure you would've been an excellent doctor," he offered, forcing a smile.
Laura gave him a long, serious look. "Fuck, yeah."
His smile grew sincere. "Why don't you apprentice under the Sanctuary's doctor, then? It seems like a good fit."
A hint of amusement flickered in Laura's eyes. "I've already got a job," she replied.
Gabriel frowned, shifting on his feet. The faint clinking of glass shards pulled him back to reality. Shaking his head, he crouched down to gather the shattered remnants of his tea cup.
"Weren't you listening?" Laura snapped, startling him enough to make him drop a piece of glass.
"What?" He blinked up at her.
"Leave that shit alone," she said sternly. "You don't do this kind of work." Leaning back inside the doorway, Laura snapped her fingers at someone unseen. "You. Come here."
Hurried footsteps echoed down the hall, and a young man appeared in the doorway. He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties, sporting a thin, scruffy beard and weary eyes. Taking in the scene, he didn't need to be told what to do. Without hesitation, he pulled on a pair of thick work gloves, knelt down, and began gathering the shattered pieces.
"This isn't necessary," Gabriel protested weakly.
"Don't worry about it, Father," the young man replied calmly, picking up the last pieces before standing. With his back turned to Laura, he shot Gabriel a meaningful look. "I'm Alden. If you ever need anything, just ask for me."
Gabriel blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Thank you, Alden. I'll keep that in mind."
"You know, Doc's got a younger brother," Laura drawled, casually leaning against the doorframe as the young man's footsteps faded. A man screamed somewhere inside the Sanctuary, but Laura paid it no mind. She studied her nails as she spoke, "He lives in another community. Negan'll bring him in sooner or later."
Gabriel frowned slightly. "I'm not sure I follow."
"You were wondering why I'm not trying to become a doctor, right? It's simple – Doc's expendable. Negan can replace him anytime he wants. Me? I've made sure I'm not that easy to replace." She paused, a smirk playing on her lips. "And neither are you."
"I see," he murmured, his voice carefully neutral.
Laura shifted her stance, her expression softening just a fraction. "Hey," she said, almost reluctantly. "Do you think you could talk to Rosita?" There was a hint of genuine concern in her voice, a rare crack in her otherwise tough exterior. "She's been a bit off since the… incident."
"The incident?" Gabriel repeated.
Laura gave him a look. "The demon lady?" She huffed a sigh. "Is it really any weirder than the lives we're already living?"
Gabriel managed a weak smile. "I suppose not." But then he frowned. "But I haven't even seen Rosita since–"
Laura pointed toward the courtyard. The Sanctuary was never truly quiet, even in the dead of night. The undead, confined within the gated section of the yard, never rested. In the darkness, it was easy to overlook the solitary figure standing motionless by the fence, cloaked in shadow. Gabriel's heart sank as he realized his friend had been right in front of him this whole time.
Taking a deep breath, Gabriel made his way toward Rosita.
He found her by the walker pen. Her long hair hung loose, cascading down her back in dark rivers. She seemed lost in thought, her expression contemplative as she stared into the vacant eyes of a trapped walker, their faces mere inches apart. If it weren't for the chain link fence separating them, the walker would have been gnawing on Rosita's face instead of cold metal.
"You shouldn't be here," she told him without taking her eyes off the walker.
"Neither should you," Gabriel replied, recalling that their last conversation had played out exactly the same way.
"I think I'm exactly where I need to be." Lifting her chin, she motioned at the walker. "Do you think this is God's way of punishing us?" Rosita asked, her tone matter-of-fact.
"Perhaps He is testing us?" he suggested.
Rosita hummed in thought. "I think I have a lot to learn."
Before he could inquire further, Gabriel's attention was drawn to movement beyond the chain link fence. What he had initially thought was just another dead body suddenly shifted with a low groan. It was the boy, he realized with a start – the one he'd met on the day of his arrival. The one who had been placed inside the walker pen as punishment.
"Hello?" Gabriel called out to him.
He felt Laura tense at his back. The boy jumped, startled to be addressed. Inside the pen, the dead surged forward in their restraints, their vigor renewed by the sound of Gabriel's voice. The boy didn't pay them any mind, just turned his attention on Gabriel, expression guarded. Even in the dim light of night, his face was visibly bruised.
"It's all right," Gabriel said in what he hoped was a soothing tone of voice. He rooted inside his pocket, retrieving a candy bar he'd been saving up for later. "Would you like something to eat?" he asked, holding the candy bar like an offering.
The boy approached slowly, eyeing him skeptically. Behind him, Laura hissed urgently, "You can't do that. That one is off limits."
Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at Laura. "Actually, I think I can do whatever I want," he said, offering her a pleasant smile. "Unless you happen to have another priest on standby?"
A slow smirk crept onto Laura's lips. "Well played."
The boy approached cautiously, his eyes darting between Gabriel and the candy bar he had slipped through the fence. It fell to the ground, coming to rest at the feet of a snarling walker strung up against the chain link. It wasn't until Laura rolled her eyes and tossed her own water bottle over the fence that the boy finally relaxed. In an instant, he snatched both the bottle and the candy bar, inhaling them before any of them could blink.
"Why are they keeping you locked up with the walkers?" Gabriel asked softly, taking in the boy's gaunt frame.
"He got Daryl out," Rosita answered for him, an appreciative smile curving her lips.
Gabriel's breath hitched. "Daryl is alive?" At Rosita's questioning look, he glanced over at Laura, knowing better than to talk freely in front of her. He chose his next words carefully. "We were told he passed away."
"Hey, you just called them walkers," the teenager suddenly said, his voice rough from disuse. He reached for the chain link fence, standing uncomfortably close to the strung-up walker hanging from it. "Are you from Alexandria?"
Brow furrowed, Gabriel slowly nodded. "We are."
The boy bit his lip, anxiety etched across his features. "Are my friends okay?"
"Your friends?"
"Carl and the others," the boy replied quickly, pushing back his dirty hair with an equally dirty hand. "What about Cas, is he–"
They were interrupted by a sudden loud commotion from the direction of the gates. Gabriel turned to see what was happening, blinking in surprise as he took in the scene. Out of nowhere, a thick fog had begun to form, an intensely white cloud that rolled down from the sky. It was the middle of the night, hours until dawn, yet the fog glowed brightly, as if it had descended directly from the heavens, carrying a hint of sunlight with it.
The air smelled like ozone. It was a sharp, electric scent.
Suddenly, something crashed into the gates with a loud thud, causing all of them to jump. The patrolling guards, who had come running at the commotion, halted beside them, their expressions apprehensive. The fog was becoming thicker by the minute, engulfing the Sanctuary like a shroud. The second pair of guards stationed at the gates hesitated, looking around wildly as another knock echoed through the night, reverberating off the metal.
"What the hell is that?" Laura demanded, before turning to the nearest guard. "Get Negan. Go!"
There were faint voices coming from behind the gates. Swallowing thickly, Gabriel began to approach. The guards' wide eyes turned to him for guidance, their faces partially hidden behind the swirling mist. It was clear to all of them that this was no ordinary fog; they could feel it in their bones.
"Open the gates," Gabriel said, the command slipping from his lips. His heart pounded in his chest. With no small amount of hesitation, the guards moved to obey.
The gates swung open.
Gabriel thought they were walkers at first. They moved slowly, their feet scuffing against the ground, their forms barely visible through the thick fog. But then, they spoke.
"He's coming for you," the young woman whispered, her sightless eyes somehow fixed on him with a terrifying intensity. If she had the capacity to cry, he was certain she would have been sobbing. "He's coming for you."
"Mara?" he heard Laura whisper.
"He's coming for you." The woman clutched at Gabriel's sleeves, her fingernails digging painfully into his forearms. "He's coming for you," she kept chanting, her voice rising in urgency. With her face so close to his, he could feel the heat radiating from her empty, charred eye sockets. The scent of burning flesh filled his nose, overwhelming his senses. "He's coming for you. He's coming for you."
"Who's coming?" Gabriel's own voice came as a terrified whisper. "Who did this to you?"
But there were no answers, only the same echoed warnings. The woman's voice intermingled with the others in a disjointed chorus. "He's coming for you," they chanted in their wrecked voices, each of them bearing the same sighless gaze, faces streaked with black soot, steam rising from the charred, gaping wounds where their eyes used to be.
For a moment, he thought of Carl and how he must have looked after his injury, but no – this was far worse. Gabriel couldn't shake the feeling that he was staring into the depths of Hell itself.
The temperature seemed to drop around him, as if the fog itself carried an otherworldly chill. Suddenly, someone shoved past him, causing him to stumble and lose his balance. The young woman slipped from his arms. He could still hear her voice chanting in his ears. Gabriel scrambled to regain his footing, glancing around wildly.
Through the chaos, Gabriel caught the faint sound of laughter. A carefree, disconcerting sound that sent a shiver down his spine. It was coming from the boy in the cage.
"What the hell are you laughing at?" someone demanded roughly. The boy only laughed harder.
People were pouring into the yard now, stumbling in the unnatural fog. Shouts filled the air, urgent and panicked.
And above it all, the same urgent chanting:
"He's coming for you."
"He's coming for you."
"He's coming for you."
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