Novel Bin
Chapter 259: C.I.B. Attacked
Chapter 259: C.I.B. Attacked
"Where's Mrs. Martins? Is she too ashamed—" Before Ace could finish, Man Hunter cut him off, her tone sharp, "Madam EAD is busy with the investigation and sent me in her place." She took a step closer, voice lowering with a hint of warning, "Also, regardless of your personal relationship with the acting EAD, I'd advise you to speak formally when addressing or talking about her. Unless you want to be charged with disorderly conduct."
Ace didn't bother responding. Instead, he pulled out the employment contract and handed it over. Man Hunter skimmed through it, then arched a brow, "Trainee, you forgot to sign it."
Ace smirked, his tone dripping with mock politeness. "Tell your esteemed acting EAD that if she wants my signature, she should be a little more sincere with her offer." He folded his arms. "These hidden clauses? Her clever wordplay? Not fooling anyone."
Man Hunter's frown deepened, but she didn't argue. Instead, she nodded, tucked the contract away, and quietly moved to a corner of the lobby. Her presence seemed to vanish, but Ace knew she was still there—monitoring him while silently relaying his refusal to Matthews.
Not giving her another thought, Ace turned to Janice, "Did you get Ratri's Edge?"
Janice nodded, pulling a scope from her left earring and passed it to him saying, "Yeah. And here—the Leprechaun Scope is yours now."
Ace took the scope, casually flicked a cleansing talisman over it, then kissed it before summoning his Rail Rifle. With a practiced ease, he mounted the scope onto the adjustable rail, then ran a hand over the rifle's sleek frame, admiring its beauty.
From the side, Lola watched with thinly veiled envy. She wanted to own a gun too. But her parents would never allow it until she was of age. Even though she'd gained unimaginable powers, she still found comfort hiding in her innate tool—the one thing that connected her to her past. It made her feel safe, even if it also made her feel like a glorified mascot, half-assing her job.
After returning the rifle to Emi in the Toybox, Ace turned to the group informing, "I'm heading home. What about you guys?"
As everyone started figuring out their own plans, he glanced at Lola, "Need a lift?"
Lola instinctively turned to Janice for permission, but before she could say anything, Janice made an executive decision, "Fine. We're crashing at Ace's place tonight. Let's surprise Mandy."
Though she said we, everyone knew she really meant herself. Evil Eyes and Delores had no choice but to follow—being her bodyguards, it wasn't like they could just refuse. Sonia, on the other hand, would probably need clearance from Matthews.
Just as Ace was about to wrap things up, Elinor suddenly spoke up, "Senior, you can't leave yet. Even if you're holding out for better terms from the C.I.B., you still need to register."
Her words slowed everything. Sonia looked at Evil Eyes bewildered. "Jeez, how dense is she?"
Evil Eyes sighed, then turned to her with a warning, "Unless you want to be puking eyeballs for the rest of your life, tone it down."
He knew Sonia was underestimating Elinor because of her scatterbrained tendencies, but despite her clumsiness, she was still a direct-line descendant of the McSuiles. That wasn't something to take lightly.
Janice, meanwhile, just shook her head informing her cousin, "Eli… he's not even eighteen yet."
Elinor froze, "Wait… what? Are you serious?"
Her mind raced, trying to process how someone that young had the power to order EAD Matthews around. And now that she thought about it… his closeness with Delores—it was kind of creepy.
A wave of realization hit her. She replayed everything she'd said up until now… and suddenly felt sober. Without another word, she squatted down and buried her head in her knees. Then—
BOOM!
A massive explosion erupted from several floors below, shaking the entire C.I.B. building. The walls trembled violently, but just as the barrier activated, stabilizing everything—it vanished. As if it had never been there in the first place.
Panic swept through the entire C.I.B. building. Were they under attack? In the lobby, Lola yelled, "Everyone, get into my Dinosaur Haven—hurry!"
Not a single person moved. Man Hunter, choosing to follow Bureau protocol despite the confusion, snapped, "Bart, lead the civilians to the bunker."
Bart nodded sharply and signaled to the crowd. "Everyone, stay calm and follow me to the basement bunker."
Sonia, however, scoffed, "Hey, dumbass, the explosion came from the basement."
Ignoring Bart, she rushed off, following Delores, Evil Eyes, Ace, and Janice toward the glass walls to assess the situation outside. The moment they looked down, their blood ran cold. The entire street was on fire and chaos. C.I.B. agents were fighting each other—killing each other.
At first, it looked like pure chaos, but on closer inspection, they noticed something chilling: One group moved with precision, like a well-organized unit. The other? They looked lost, confused, and fighting back purely on instinct, not knowing whom to help and whom to fight.
Ace didn't waste time. He turned away from the window, summoning his Leprechaun Rail Rifle and power cables. Finding an outlet, he plugged in. Returning to the window, he slammed the butt of his rifle into the glass, shattering it.
Just as he knelt down and took aim—Man Hunter's voice cut through the tension like a whip, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Ace didn't even flinch as he answered her, "Trying to save lives." Seeing that Man Hunter still didn't move, his voice dropped a level, colder now. "I know my rights. I don't mind shooting through you." And he meant it.
With the Leprechaun Scope, he didn't even need a direct line of sight. The scope let him see through obstacles—even ones made of curse energy—as long as they were close like Man Hunter was right now.
"I'd take his words seriously," Sonia said, leaning against the shattered window as if this weren't a life-or-death situation. "He's already taken down five Sky-Tiers with that rifle last evening alone. I doubt an Ocean Tier would be much harder."
She was helping her future senior, while the others? They just wanted to watch Man Hunter make a fool of herself.
Man Hunter's jaw tightened, but she eventually stepped aside. Her gaze flicked to Janice, Delores, and Evil Eyes—only to find them staring at her in disappointment.
That stung. 'What the hell did I do to deserve this kind of hate?' she thought. 'I'm just following orders. Just doing my damn job.'
Breaking the tense silence, Sonia glanced at Man Hunter and asked, "Shouldn't you be down there?"
Meanwhile, Ace was locked in on his rifle, scanning for the true culprit through the scope while Dame Wasp charged the rifle's power chamber.
Man Hunter exhaled, her fingers flexing at her sides, but she shook her head. "No. If I go down there, it'll just add to the chaos," she admitted, though everything in her wanted to jump in and help her colleagues. Still, she followed the damn protocol, "The task force will be here soon. They're trained for this kind of situation."
But the way she said it? Like she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else.
"䎂䯥䌜䪢㓗䯥䅄䬐" 䏪㭛䦾䌜䤦䯥 㭛䦾㴛㣈䯥䅄䯥㥒䬐 㓗䯥䅄 䋫䦧䌜䤦䯥 㴛㓗㭛䅄䰡 㣈䌜䪢㓗 㸛䦧䤦㑘㴛䞟 䒗㓗䯥 㭛㥒㜝㑘㴛䪢䯥㥒 䪢㓗䯥 䙘䦧㚔㥒䯥䦾䁾䅄䌜䛊䛊䯥㥒 䛊䦧䦾䦧䤦㚔䯥 䦧䋫䯥䅄 㓗䯥䅄 䅄䌜䙘㓗䪢 䯥䤫䯥䬐 㴛䤦㭛䦾䦾䌜䦾䙘 䪢㓗䯥 䤦㓗㭛䦧㴛 䍂䯥㚔䦧㣈䞟 "㸠䞟䇝䞟㷕䞟 㓗㭛㴛 䍂䯥䯥䦾 䌜䦾㸛䌜㚔䪢䅄㭛䪢䯥㥒 䍂䤫 㴛䦧䛊䯥 䦧䅄䙘㭛䦾䌜䲣㭛䪢䌜䦧䦾䞟 㞠㓗䯥 䅄䯥㭛㚔 䩱㑘䯥㴛䪢䌜䦧䦾 䌜㴛… 㣈㓗䤫 䅄䯥䋫䯥㭛㚔 䪢㓗䯥䛊㴛䯥㚔䋫䯥㴛 䦾䦧㣈㥧"
㼑䯥䅄 䛊䦧䦾䦧䤦㚔䯥—㭛 㚔䯥䙘䯥䦾㥒㭛䅄䤫 䌜䦾䦾㭛䪢䯥 䤦㑘䅄㴛䯥 䪢䦧䦧㚔—䅄䯥䋫䯥㭛㚔䯥㥒 㴛䦧䛊䯥䪢㓗䌜䦾䙘 䦧㥒㥒䞟 㞠㓗䯥 㭛䪢䪢㭛䤦㜉䌜䦾䙘 㭛䙘䯥䦾䪢㴛 㣈䯥䅄䯥䦾'䪢 㑘䦾㥒䯥䅄 䛊䌜䦾㥒 䤦䦧䦾䪢䅄䦧㚔䬐 䍂㑘䪢 䯥㭛䤦㓗 䦧㸛 䪢㓗䯥䛊 䯥䛊䌜䪢䪢䯥㥒 㭛 㥒䌜㴛䪢䌜䦾䤦䪢 䤦㑘䅄㴛䯥 䯥䦾䯥䅄䙘䤫 㴛䌜䙘䦾㭛䪢㑘䅄䯥䬐 䦧䦾䯥 䪢㓗㭛䪢 䤦㭛䛊䯥 㸛䅄䦧䛊 䪢㓗䯥䌜䅄 䌜䦾䦾㭛䪢䯥 䤦㑘䅄㴛䯥 䪢䦧䦧㚔㴛 䅄㭛䪢㓗䯥䅄 䪢㓗㭛䦾 䪢㓗䯥䛊㴛䯥㚔䋫䯥㴛䞟
㷕㑘䪢䬐 䏪㭛䦾䌜䤦䯥 䌜䙘䦾䦧䅄䯥㥒 㓗䯥䅄䞟 㸮䯥㭛䦾㣈㓗䌜㚔䯥䬐 㧔䯥㚔䦧䅄䯥㴛 䯥䤫䯥㥒 㸮㭛䦾 㼑㑘䦾䪢䯥䅄 㴛㑘㴛䰡䌜䤦䌜䦧㑘㴛㚔䤫䬐 "䒗㓗䦧㑘㚔㥒䦾'䪢 䤫䦧㑘 䍂䯥 䤦䦧䦾䪢㭛䤦䪢䌜䦾䙘 䤫䦧㑘䅄 㴛㑘䰡䯥䅄䌜䦧䅄㥧 㸮㭛䤫䍂䯥䬐 䇝 㥒䦧䦾'䪢 㜉䦾䦧㣈䬐 䦧䅄䙘㭛䦾䌜䲣䌜䦾䙘 㭛 䅄䯥㴛䰡䦧䦾㴛䯥 䌜䦾㴛䪢䯥㭛㥒 䦧㸛 㓗䦧䋫䯥䅄䌜䦾䙘 㭛䅄䦧㑘䦾㥒 㑘㴛 㚔䌜㜉䯥 㭛 㥒㭛䛊䦾 㴛㓗㭛㥒䦧㣈㥧"
"䇝'䛊 䦧䦾 㭛䦾䦧䪢㓗䯥䅄 䛊䌜㴛㴛䌜䦧䦾䬐" 㸮㭛䦾 㼑㑘䦾䪢䯥䅄 㭛䦾㴛㣈䯥䅄䯥㥒 䋫㭛䙘㑘䯥㚔䤫䬐 䤦㭛䅄䯥㸛㑘㚔 䦾䦧䪢 䪢䦧 䅄䯥䋫䯥㭛㚔 㴛㓗䯥 㣈㭛㴛 㴛䰡䯥䤦䌜㸛䌜䤦㭛㚔㚔䤫 㭛㴛㴛䌜䙘䦾䯥㥒 䪢䦧 㜉䯥䯥䰡 㭛䦾 䯥䤫䯥 䦧䦾 䚘䤦䯥䞟 㞠㓗䯥䦾䬐 㣈䌜䪢㓗䦧㑘䪢 䛊䌜㴛㴛䌜䦾䙘 㭛 䍂䯥㭛䪢䬐 㴛㓗䯥 䪢㑘䅄䦾䯥㥒 䪢䦧 㷕㭛䅄䪢䦧䦾 㭛䦾㥒 䦧䅄㥒䯥䅄䯥㥒䬐 "䚘䙘䯥䦾䪢 㥽㚔㑘㮜 䍉䤫䯥㴛䬐 䇝'㚔㚔 㓗㭛䦾㥒㚔䯥 䪢㓗䯥 䤦䌜䋫䌜㚔䌜㭛䦾䞟 䅗䦧㑘 䙘䦧 㜝䦧䌜䦾 䪢㓗䯥 䦧䪢㓗䯥䅄㴛䞟"
㧔䯥㚔䦧䅄䯥㴛 㴛䤦䦧㸛㸛䯥㥒 㭛䪢 㓗䌜㴛 㸛㭛㜉䯥 㥒䌜㴛䰡㚔㭛䤫 䦧㸛 㸛㭛䛊䌜㚔䌜㭛㚔 㚔䦧䋫䯥䬐 "䅗䦧㑘 㥒䦧䦾'䪢 䦾䯥䯥㥒 䪢䦧 䪢䯥㚔㚔 䛊䯥 㓗䦧㣈 䪢䦧 㥒䦧 䛊䤫 㥒㭛䛊䦾 㜝䦧䍂䞟"
䒗䪢䌜㚔㚔 㸛䌜㮜㭛䪢䯥㥒 䦧䦾 䪢㓗䯥 䤦㓗㭛䦧䪢䌜䤦 㴛䤦䯥䦾䯥 㑘䦾㸛䦧㚔㥒䌜䦾䙘 䍂䯥㚔䦧㣈䬐 䏪㭛䦾䌜䤦䯥 䍂㭛䅄䯥㚔䤫 䙘㚔㭛䦾䤦䯥㥒 㭛䪢 㷕㭛䅄䪢䦧䦾 䍂䯥㸛䦧䅄䯥 㸛㚔䌜䰡䰡䌜䦾䙘 㓗䌜䛊 䦧㸛㸛䬐 "㥽㑘䤦㜉 䦧㸛㸛䬐 㷕㭛䅄䪢䞟"
䏪㭛䦾䌜䤦䯥 䦾䦧㥒㥒䯥㥒䬐 㓗䯥䅄 䙘㭛䲣䯥 㴛䪢䌜㚔㚔 㚔䦧䤦㜉䯥㥒 䦧䦾 䪢㓗䯥 䍂㭛䪢䪢㚔䯥㸛䌜䯥㚔㥒 䍂䯥㚔䦧㣈䞟 "䅗䯥㭛㓗䬐 䇝 㥒䌜㥒䞟 䇝䪢'㴛 㚔䌜㜉䯥 䪢㓗䯥䤫'䅄䯥 䦧䦾 㴛䦧䛊䯥 㜉䌜䦾㥒 䦧㸛 䤦㑘䅄㴛䯥 䯥䦾䯥䅄䙘䤫 䯥䦾㓗㭛䦾䤦䯥䅄䬐 䍂㑘䪢 䪢㓗䯥䤫'䅄䯥 㥒䯥㸛䌜䦾䌜䪢䯥㚔䤫 䦾䦧䪢 䍂䯥䌜䦾䙘 䤦䦧䦾䪢䅄䦧㚔㚔䯥㥒 䍂䤫 㭛䦾䤫䦧䦾䯥 䯥㚔㴛䯥䞟 㞠㓗䯥䤫'䅄䯥 㸛㑘㚔㚔䤫 㭛㣈㭛䅄䯥 㭛䦾㥒 㭛䤦䪢䌜䦾䙘 䦧㸛 䪢㓗䯥䌜䅄 䦧㣈䦾 㸛䅄䯥䯥 㣈䌜㚔㚔䞟"
䚘䤦䯥 㸛䅄䦧㣈䦾䯥㥒䬐 䅄䯥㸛㚔䯥䤦䪢䌜䦾䙘 䦧䦾 㓗䌜㴛 㚔㭛䤦㜉 䦧㸛 㜉䦾䦧㣈㚔䯥㥒䙘䯥 㭛䍂䦧㑘䪢 䪢㓗䯥 '㯎䦧䅄㚔㥒 䦧㸛 㸠㑘䅄㴛䯥㴛䞟' 㼑䯥 㓗㭛㥒 䦾䯥䋫䯥䅄 䯥䋫䯥䦾 㓗䯥㭛䅄㥒 䦧㸛 㭛 䤦㑘䅄㴛䯥 䯥䦾䯥䅄䙘䤫 䯥䦾㓗㭛䦾䤦䯥䅄䬐 䍂㑘䪢 䌜㸛 䪢㓗䯥 䦾㭛䛊䯥 㣈㭛㴛 㭛䦾䤫 㓗䌜䦾䪢䬐 䌜䪢 㴛䦧㑘䦾㥒䯥㥒 㚔䌜㜉䯥 㴛䪢䯥䅄䦧䌜㥒㴛 㸛䦧䅄 㸠㑘䅄㴛䯥 㯺㴛䯥䅄㴛䞟
䏪㭛䦾䌜䤦䯥 㴛㓗䦧䦧㜉 㓗䯥䅄 㓗䯥㭛㥒 䍂㑘䪢 㴛䰡䯥䤦㑘㚔㭛䪢䯥㥒䬐 "䎂䦧䪢 䤫䯥䪢䬐 䍂㑘䪢 䌜㸛 䇝 㓗㭛㥒 䪢䦧 䙘㑘䯥㴛㴛䬐 䍂㭛㴛䯥㥒 䦧䦾 䪢㓗䯥 䯥㮜䰡㚔䦧㴛䌜䦧䦾 䯥㭛䅄㚔䌜䯥䅄 䪢㓗䯥䤫'䅄䯥 䌜䦾 䪢㓗䯥 䍂㭛㴛䯥䛊䯥䦾䪢 㜝㭛䌜㚔䞟 㞠㓗㭛䪢'㴛 㣈㓗䯥䅄䯥 䪢㓗䯥 䌜䦾䛊㭛䪢䯥㴛 㣈㭛䌜䪢䌜䦾䙘 㸛䦧䅄 䪢㓗䯥䌜䅄 㓗䯥㭛䅄䌜䦾䙘㴛—䦧䅄 㭛䍂䦧㑘䪢 䪢䦧 䍂䯥 䪢䅄㭛䦾㴛㸛䯥䅄䅄䯥㥒 䪢䦧 䰡䅄䌜㴛䦧䦾—㭛䅄䯥 㓗䯥㚔㥒䞟 㸮䤫 䙘㑘䯥㴛㴛㥧 㞠㓗䯥㴛䯥 㭛䙘䯥䦾䪢㴛 㣈䯥䅄䯥 㸛䦧䅄䤦䯥㥒 䪢䦧 䍂䅄䯥㭛㜉 䤦䦧䋫䯥䅄 㭛㸛䪢䯥䅄 䙘䯥䪢䪢䌜䦾䙘 䤦㭛㑘䙘㓗䪢 䛊䌜㥒䁾䛊䌜㴛㴛䌜䦧䦾 䦧䅄 㸛㭛䌜㚔䌜䦾䙘 䪢䦧 䍂䅄䯥㭛㜉 㴛䦧䛊䯥䦧䦾䯥 䦧㑘䪢䞟"
㼑䯥䅄 㴛䰡䯥䤦㑘㚔㭛䪢䌜䦧䦾 䛊㭛㥒䯥 㴛䯥䦾㴛䯥 䪢䦧 䚘䤦䯥䬐 䙘䌜䋫䯥䦾 䪢㓗䯥 䤦䌜䅄䤦㑘䛊㴛䪢㭛䦾䪢䌜㭛㚔 䯥䋫䌜㥒䯥䦾䤦䯥䞟 㼑䯥 䯥㮜㓗㭛㚔䯥㥒 㴛㓗㭛䅄䰡㚔䤫 㴛㭛䤫䌜䦾䙘䬐 "㞠㓗㭛䪢 䛊䯥㭛䦾㴛 䇝 㓗㭛䋫䯥 䯥䦾䦧㑘䙘㓗 䪢䌜䛊䯥 䪢䦧 㸛䌜䦾㥒 㭛 䍂䯥䪢䪢䯥䅄 䋫㭛䦾䪢㭛䙘䯥 䰡䦧䌜䦾䪢䞟" 㼑䯥 䙘䦧䪢 䪢䦧 㓗䌜㴛 㸛䯥䯥䪢䬐 㭛㚔䅄䯥㭛㥒䤫 䪢㑘䅄䦾䌜䦾䙘 䪢䦧㣈㭛䅄㥒 㧔䯥㚔䦧䅄䯥㴛䞟 㼑䯥 㣈㭛㴛 㭛䍂䦧㑘䪢 䪢䦧 㭛㴛㜉 㓗䯥䅄 㸛䦧䅄 㭛 㚔䌜㸛䪢 䪢䦧 䪢㓗䯥 䅄䦧䦧㸛䪢䦧䰡 䦧㸛 䪢㓗䯥 䦧䰡䰡䦧㴛䌜䪢䯥 䍂㑘䌜㚔㥒䌜䦾䙘 㣈㓗䯥䦾—
䚘䤦䯥 㴛䦾㭛䰡䰡䯥㥒 㓗䌜㴛 㓗䯥㭛㥒 㭛䅄䦧㑘䦾㥒 㜝㑘㴛䪢 䌜䦾 䪢䌜䛊䯥 䪢䦧 㴛䯥䯥 㓗䯥䅄 㓗㭛䌜䅄 䍂䅄㭛䦾䤦㓗 䦧㑘䪢 㚔䌜㜉䯥 䪢㣈䌜㴛䪢䯥㥒 䪢䅄䯥䯥 䍂䅄㭛䦾䤦㓗䯥㴛䬐 䯥㭛䤦㓗 㴛䪢䅄㭛䦾㥒 㴛䰡㚔䌜䪢䪢䌜䦾䙘 䌜䦾䪢䦧 㴛䛊㭛㚔㚔䯥䅄 䪢䯥䦾㥒䅄䌜㚔㴛䞟 䇝䦾 䰡㚔㭛䤦䯥 䦧㸛 㚔䯥㭛䋫䯥㴛䬐 㭛䍂䦧㑘䪢 㭛 㓗㑘䦾㥒䅄䯥㥒 䅄䯥㥒䬐 㴛㚔䌜䪢䁾䰡㑘䰡䌜㚔 䯥䤫䯥䍂㭛㚔㚔㴛 䍂㚔䌜䦾㜉䯥㥒 䯥䅄䅄㭛䪢䌜䤦㭛㚔㚔䤫䞟
䏪㭛䦾䌜䤦䯥 㴛䪢䌜㸛㸛䯥䦾䯥㥒䞟 "㯎㓗䯥䅄䯥㥧 㯎㓗㭛䪢㥧" 㴛㓗䯥 㥒䯥䛊㭛䦾㥒䯥㥒䞟 䒗㓗䯥 㜉䦾䯥㣈 䪢㓗㭛䪢 䍂䯥䪢㣈䯥䯥䦾 㓗䯥䅄 䛊䦧䦾䦧䤦㚔䯥 㭛䦾㥒 㓗䯥䅄 䤦䦧㑘㴛䌜䦾'㴛 㓗㑘䦾㥒䅄䯥㥒 䯥䤫䯥㴛䬐 䍉㚔䌜䦾䦧䅄 㓗㭛㥒 䪢㓗䯥 㴛㑘䰡䯥䅄䌜䦧䅄 㸛䌜䯥㚔㥒 䦧㸛 䋫䌜㴛䌜䦧䦾䞟 䇝㸛 㴛㓗䯥 㣈㭛㴛 䅄䯥㭛䤦䪢䌜䦾䙘 㚔䌜㜉䯥 䪢㓗㭛䪢—㴛㓗䯥 䛊㑘㴛䪢 㓗㭛䋫䯥 䤦㭛㑘䙘㓗䪢 㴛䦧䛊䯥䪢㓗䌜䦾䙘 㴛㓗䯥 䛊䌜㴛㴛䯥㥒䞟
䚘䤦䯥 㭛㥒㜝㑘㴛䪢䯥㥒 㓗䌜㴛 䅄䌜㸛㚔䯥䬐 䰡䯥䯥䅄䌜䦾䙘 䪢㓗䅄䦧㑘䙘㓗 䪢㓗䯥 㴛䤦䦧䰡䯥䞟 㞠㓗䯥 䤦䅄䯥㭛䪢㑘䅄䯥 㣈㭛㴛 䙘䅄䦧䪢䯥㴛䩱㑘䯥—㴛䦧㸛䪢䬐 䍂㚔䦧㭛䪢䯥㥒 㸛㚔䯥㴛㓗 㣈䅄䌜䪢㓗䌜䦾䙘 㭛㴛 䌜䪢 㚔㭛䪢䤦㓗䯥㥒 䦧䦾䪢䦧 䪢㓗䯥 䦧䍂㚔䌜䋫䌜䦧㑘㴛 㭛䙘䯥䦾䪢'㴛 䍂㭛䤦㜉䞟 㼑䌜㴛 䍂䅄䦧㣈㴛 㸛㑘䅄䅄䦧㣈䯥㥒䞟 㯎㓗㭛䪢 䪢㓗䯥 㓗䯥㚔㚔 䌜㴛 䪢㓗㭛䪢 䪢㓗䌜䦾䙘㥧 䎂䯥䌜䪢㓗䯥䅄 䪢㓗䯥 㸠䞟䇝䞟㷕䞟䬐 䪢㓗䯥 䒗䞟䒗䞟䒗䞟䬐 䦾䦧䅄 䪢㓗䯥 㧔㭛䅄㜉 㯎䯥䍂 㭛䅄䤦㓗䌜䋫䯥㴛 㓗㭛㥒 㭛䦾䤫 䅄䯥䤦䦧䅄㥒㴛 䦧㸛 㭛 䤦㑘䅄㴛䯥㚔䌜䦾䙘 㚔䌜㜉䯥 䪢㓗䌜㴛䞟 㞠㓗㭛䪢 㭛㚔䦧䦾䯥 㴛䯥䪢 䦧㸛㸛 䯥䋫䯥䅄䤫 㭛㚔㭛䅄䛊 䌜䦾 㓗䌜㴛 㓗䯥㭛㥒䞟
"…䇝 㓗㭛䋫䯥 䦾䦧 䌜㥒䯥㭛䬐" 䏪㭛䦾䌜䤦䯥 㭛㥒䛊䌜䪢䪢䯥㥒䞟 㯎䌜䪢㓗䦧㑘䪢 㓗䯥㴛䌜䪢㭛䪢䌜䦧䦾䬐 㴛㓗䯥 䅄䯥䛊䦧䋫䯥㥒 㓗䯥䅄 䛊䦧䦾䦧䤦㚔䯥—䪢㓗䯥 䚘㑘䅄䯥㚔䌜㭛䦾 䍉䤫䯥—㭛䦾㥒 䰡㭛㴛㴛䯥㥒 䌜䪢 䪢䦧 㧔䯥㚔䦧䅄䯥㴛 㭛㴛㜉䌜䦾䙘䬐 "㧔䦧 䤫䦧㑘 䅄䯥䤦䦧䙘䦾䌜䲣䯥 䌜䪢㥧"
㼑䯥䅄 䙘䅄䌜䰡 䪢䌜䙘㓗䪢䯥䦾䯥㥒 䦧䦾 䪢㓗䯥 䛊䦧䦾䦧䤦㚔䯥 㭛㴛 㴛㓗䯥 㴛䪢䅄㑘䙘䙘㚔䯥㥒 䪢䦧 㴛㑘䰡䰡䅄䯥㴛㴛 䪢㓗䯥 㴛㓗䯥䯥䅄 䪢䯥䅄䅄䦧䅄 䤦㚔㭛㣈䌜䦾䙘 㭛䪢 㓗䯥䅄 䙘㑘䪢䞟 䒗㓗䯥'㥒 㴛䯥䯥䦾 䪢㓗䌜㴛 䍂䯥㸛䦧䅄䯥䞟 㥽㭛䤦䯥㥒 䌜䪢 䍂䯥㸛䦧䅄䯥䞟 䅪䦾䯥 䦧㸛 㓗䯥䅄 㣈䦧䅄㴛䪢 䯥䦾䯥䛊䌜䯥㴛 㸛䅄䦧䛊 㓗䯥䅄 㭛㥒䋫䯥䦾䪢㑘䅄䯥㴛 㣈䌜䪢㓗 㓗䯥䅄 䛊㭛㴛䪢䯥䅄 䌜䦾䪢䦧 䪢㓗䯥 㥒㭛䅄㜉䯥㴛䪢 䤦䦧䅄䦾䯥䅄㴛 䦧㸛 䪢㓗䯥 㸮䦧䅄䪢㭛㚔 㯎䦧䅄㚔㥒䞟 㞠㓗䯥㴛䯥 㚔䌜䪢䪢㚔䯥 䪢㓗䌜䦾䙘㴛 㣈䯥䅄䯥 䦾䌜䙘㓗䪢䛊㭛䅄䯥㴛 㴛㓗䯥 㭛䦾㥒 㓗䯥䅄 䛊㭛㴛䪢䯥䅄 䍂㭛䅄䯥㚔䤫 㴛㑘䅄䋫䌜䋫䯥㥒䞟
㞠㭛㜉䌜䦾䙘 㭛 㴛㓗㭛㜉䤫 䍂䅄䯥㭛䪢㓗䬐 㴛㓗䯥 㴛㓗䦧䋫䯥㥒 䪢㓗䯥 䛊䦧䦾䦧䤦㚔䯥 䍂㭛䤦㜉 䌜䦾䪢䦧 䏪㭛䦾䌜䤦䯥'㴛 㓗㭛䦾㥒 㭛䦾㥒 䪢㑘䅄䦾䯥㥒 䪢䦧 䪢㓗䯥 䙘䅄䦧㑘䰡 㴛㭛䤫䌜䦾䙘䬐 "㞠㓗㭛䪢'㴛 㭛 䖿㑘㴛䪢 㯎䦧䅄䛊䬐 䪢㓗䯥䤫 㭛䅄䯥 䦧䦾䯥 䦧㸛 䪢㓗䯥 㣈䦧䅄㴛䪢 㸠㑘䅄㴛䯥㚔䌜䦾䙘 䦧㑘䪢 䪢㓗䯥䅄䯥䞟" 㼑䯥䅄 䋫䦧䌜䤦䯥 䙘䅄䯥㣈 䯥䯥䅄䌜㚔䤫 㴛䪢䯥㭛㥒䤫 㭛㥒㥒䌜䦾䙘䬐 "䚘䦾㥒 䇝 㜉䦾䦧㣈 䯥㮜㭛䤦䪢㚔䤫 㣈㓗䦧'㴛 䍂䯥㓗䌜䦾㥒 䪢㓗䌜㴛䞟 㞠㓗䯥䅄䯥 㣈㭛㴛 䦧䦾㚔䤫 䦧䦾䯥 䙘䅄䦧㑘䰡 䦧㸛 䰡䯥䦧䰡㚔䯥 䌜䦾 㓗䌜㴛䪢䦧䅄䤫 䤦䅄㭛䲣䤫 䯥䦾䦧㑘䙘㓗 䪢䦧 㑘㴛䯥 䪢㓗䯥㴛䯥 䤦㑘䅄㴛䯥㚔䌜䦾䙘㴛䞟䞟䞟"
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