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Kuryakin walked along the grey corridors of headquarters, his nose buried in folder. Wearing his tinted glasses, they kept slipping down his nose; without thinking about it, he pushed them back in place every few minutes.
“Psssst,” It came from a nearby utility closet.
Napoleon peeked out, pulling Illya inside.
“What is going on?”
“They’re back,” Napoleon whispered.
“They as in…?”
“Yes.”
“Oh bother, what are they going to do to us now? Torture, romance, death or some bit of silliness?” Illya moaned.