It’s Shooting Glasses. He’s scrambling down a roof two houses down, is Jesse Pinkman’ing into what’s going to be the front yard, and already rolling that impact away because it’s the least thing he has to worry about. Jade watches the window he must have dove through but it’s the front door of the house that swings open instead. The Prowler, the killer, the slasher. His chest is heaving, his face unchanging, still gas-masked, the nailgun heavy and deadly by his thigh. Shooting Glasses looks back, shakes his head no, holding his hands up like to ward off flying nails, and he’s saying something
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