Hajun was seriously considering burning the rope bridge.    

He wore a long silk bathrobe, pearl white, that dragged on the floor as he paced. A drooling bulldog sat in a wicker basket near his desk, watching him go back and forth. It was too big for the seat and his ass hung out and onto the floor. The creature was all smiles and didn’t seem to mind, panting happily. Hajun paid it no mind.    

He’d destroyed the bridge before, years ago, and he knew it wouldn’t stay gone. He would wake up one morning and find it repaired. This was always the case. Even after the time he’d figured out a way to burn it to non-existence. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it would buy him a few days, at best a week, of uninterrupted peace.      

He walked downstairs and out to the tiny courtyard that surrounded his small tower and looked down at the bridge. The bulldog, with a great deal of effort, pulled himself to his feet and toddled after him.


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