"Harvey. Harvey Dent," whispered the suspiciously childlike Julian Day. There was something about that man, something about those faces that inspired a gnawing sickness in his... Not his stomach, no, and not his thighs. Somewhere in between, whatever that place was called. It was cold like January and warm like May (Harvey's birth month) and Julian Day hated (and loved) the prickling sensation.

He stared down at a text, penned by the eloquent lawyer himself.

YOU SMELL BAD.

Oh. How this made Julian's heart pound. Such an obvious declaration of sensation! Such a bold promise of darker dreams.

He filed it under "February". The fourteenth.