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Rountree

Rountree ducks through scaffolding and leaps a gate, but his pursuer freestyles like it’s almost respectable. He kicks from streetlight to brick and clears the gate wallwise. Rountree could swear he had wings.

He shakes the tail, maybe, with a tripleback over a pedway; Rountree cuts a corner and finds himself eating gun barrel. The gun is serious. It’s also pink.

“Sorry, player,” murmurs Valentino, bare chest slick and hand steady. “Got my good shoes on.”

Rountree’s eyes flick around. There: curvy, short, fro and glasses. Not even his type.

“Oh no,” he says around the gun.

Valentino grins, and fires.

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