He builds up the dominoes. He takes them down. Piece by piece. He can always feel that familiar itch underneath his skin, the hunger, the lust, the thirst which swells to forces he can barely control. His fingers ache and he tries not to think of what will happen if he knocks them all down, if he relapses into the fury of his kin and lets slip his mask and declares war. But he won't allow it. And so he builds up the dominoes. He takes them down. Piece by piece.

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