You nodded and whispered and commanded. People died. On the streets. In mosques. In schools. In rooms turned dark by smoke from burning skin. Your lips never stopped widening with glee. You stepped outside of your office, smiling. It seemed so long ago.
Now you go from hall to hall, crossing oceans and continents to be paid for your words.
We need to tell you this: the darkness that moves as you move, that thing that pools at your feet when the sun strikes, it will never leave you. It is the shadow of all the dead.
Turn yourself in. Or we will never stop haunting you.