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Dori

“See?” Miles shakes his head as they leave. “These kids are hacks. You can’t earn anything deep in a ten-minute script.”

When they’re alone in the cloakroom, Dori flips open her butterfly knife. At first she hits a rib, then tries lower; this time it punches easily into Miles’s back.

He doesn’t stiffen up into a soundless rictus like in movies, though. He stumbles away, slamming into the wall, eyes wild back at her. He screams, a strange sound, pushes clumsily with his hands. His short fingernails are raking her face. Dori puts the knife into his belly, then out. Again.

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