The story opens with Victor standing across from a gorgeous man. He has been staring at the man for the past two months, carefully crinkling fake sugar packets on his table. He believes in persistence and does not waste time. For three weeks, Victor has ignored the other ten men who have approached him, leaving their empty coffee cups and dejected expressions. Then, one day, he notices the man across from him, who is mumbling under his breath.
The next morning, Douma was dead in the infirmary. He was lying on his side of the bed, chewing on his served arm. The man next to him was a black haired man. He stroked Douma’s soft hair and stared at him with narrow eyes. Then, he turned back to the black haired woman and smiled.
The next day, he woke up in the infirmary, sitting up on the side of the bed, chewing on his served arm. He saw a black haired man sitting beside him. He stroked his soft hair and looked back at Douma with narrow eyes. The man looked at Douma and smiled, but he didn’t seem to notice his presence.
When the infirmary staff noticed him, Douma was lying in a side bed, chewing on his served arm. He looked at the black haired man beside him with his narrow eyes. He waited for him to speak, and when he didn’t, he began to cry. The voice was that of a demon. The cold air, with its frightened citizens, shrieked in fear. The sound of the cry shook Douma’s heart. The pain lasted only a few minutes. Douma was trembling, and as the blood froze, he realized that he had woken up from his rage.
Douma was lying in an infirmary. He was chewing on his served arm. The black haired man sitting beside him was holding his arm. He stroked his soft hair and looked back at him with narrow eyes. Douma did not react to his friend’s actions. He knew he was not human. Besides, Douma’s heart had been throbbing.
In the infirmary, Douma was lying on a side-bed, chewing on his served arm. He was sitting beside him, and a black haired man stroked his soft, white hair as he leaned forward to gaze at him. He looked at Douma with narrow eyes, stroking the soft hair. Douma’s heart began throbbing.
Douma was in the infirmary. She was dead. She was lying on the side of the bed, chewing her served arm. A black haired man sat beside her, stroking the soft, white, and thin hair of her arm. He looked back at Douma with narrow eyes. It was a woman. Douma was the only one who knew him.
Douma’s body was in the infirmary. She was lying on her side, chewing her served arm. A black haired man sat beside her. He stroked her soft, white, and black-haired arms and looked back at her with narrow eyes. The man was so beautiful, she had to stop crying and ask herself what he was thinking.
The man sat near her, stroking her soft hair. He leaned close to her, and looked into her eyes. Douma’s heart throbbed and she felt the pain in her chest. The man was in a deep rage. He was angry, but he did not care. The blood heated up and the men walked away. When she turned around, Douma realized it was not an ordinary demon, but a rage.
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