A slight figure in a trench coat and fedora stepped warily into the room. He looked around. Where one would expect to see a face, there was instead a white fabric with symmetrical black markings, which shifted slowly, creating different shapes that might resemble any number of things, depending on who you asked: now a pretty butterfly, now a dead
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"The last person I met who thought he could cure the world of evil died like a rabid dog," he said calmly. "He told himself he was a god but he was nothing more than a mass murderer. Your ideals seem similar, although I gather your methods are more direct."
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