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in which they are angels

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Greg felt cold, lately. Out of nowhere he would get goosebumps. Sometimes he would shiver for days on end. He blamed the weather, naturally.

You'll die soon, perhaps, said Mycroft.

Greg didn't bother hiding his confusion. He asked how Mycroft came to the conclusion.

Mycroft shrugged his shoulders, face absent of any emotions as ever. Well, he said. We are Angels. Angels don't get cold.