Beta Machine 67T

Beta Machine 67T Giant, Technology, Gold, Global, Magic

01/07/2026

😹 My family excluded me from the reunion — so I let them drive all the way to the beach house they thought they’d rented. They didn’t know it was mine. And they definitely didn’t know I was watching the moment they forced their way inside.
My name is Skyla Morales. I live in Atlanta. I work in cybersecurity. Which means when something doesn’t add up, I don’t debate it — I log it.
A month earlier, my mother, Linda, scheduled what she called a “family check-in.” She appeared on screen in a bright room, crisp blouse, that calm expression she uses when she wants something to sound collective.
“We’ve talked things through,” she said gently. “This reunion needs to stay peaceful.”
My sister Bridget reclined beside her, wine glass tilted just so. Kyle stared off-camera, disengaged. My father adjusted his glasses and avoided looking directly at me — the tell I’ve known since childhood.
When I mentioned I could take time off and disconnect from work, my mom’s smile thinned. Subtle. Satisfied.
“You hear that?” she said. “Defensive already. That’s exactly the energy we’re trying to avoid.”
I didn’t argue. I already knew the real reason.
Two weeks earlier, Bridget had asked me to guarantee a $50,000 loan for her “launch.” I said no. In my family, no isn’t a boundary — it’s betrayal.
“This is for your own good,” Mom continued, voice warm as syrup. “You should sit this one out. We’ll send pictures.”
“Next year,” Dad added, like attendance was a privilege they issued.
Then the call ended. Efficient. Final.
Seconds later, I was removed from the reunion group chat.
They wanted me erased.
But they rushed.
A preview notification flashed just long enough for me to catch the address everyone was told to save.
Seabrook Cove. Dune Grass Lane.
My house.
I bought it years ago through an LLC. Quietly. Because my family treats boundaries like invitations — and because I learned early that anything they can name, they’ll claim. I renovated it slowly, privately, the same way you rebuild yourself when you stop asking permission.
I logged into the booking platform.
Reservation confirmed under Dylan Harper — Bridget’s fiancé.
Then my mom texted, casual as a bill reminder:
“It’s only fair you send $500 since you’re not coming.”
Bridget followed with a call, voice cheerful and rehearsed.
“Just send it, Sky. Don’t mess up the vibe.”
I didn’t correct them. I sent a neutral reply. Saved everything. And did what I always do when someone assumes I won’t notice.
I organized.
The next morning, I drove south in a nondescript rental — the kind of car no one remembers. By the time the air shifted salty and the marshland appeared, my nerves had settled into something clean and focused.
I activated the cameras. Checked angles. Locked the private owner’s closet and labeled it plainly:
Private property. Authorized access only.
No threats. No drama. Just facts.
They arrived in three SUVs, crunching over the shell driveway like a parade that never checked the guest list. My mother stepped out first, clapping and directing traffic like the place belonged to her. Bridget followed, phone raised, already filming her version.
Linda went straight to the keypad.
No hesitation.
She entered 1-9-8-5-0-7.
My birthday.
The lock flashed green.
They celebrated. Coolers dragged across my floors. Bottles opened. Laughter bounced through rooms I restored board by board. On my screen, Bridget spun in the living room, camera aimed at the ocean.
“Our beach house!” she sang.
Then she reached the hallway.
Stopped at the one locked door.
She tried the handle. Again. Harder.
Her smile disappeared.
“Call someone,” she snapped. “Now.”
A contractor’s van arrived. Through my audio feed, I heard tools clink. Voices murmured — people doing a job they believed was legitimate. My mother’s voice floated confidently…
Until red and blue lights reflected across the windows.
A car door shut.
A radio crackled.
An unfamiliar name was spoken.
Inside my parked sedan, my phone buzzed.
That’s when I opened my door. Read more in Comment or Most relevant -> All Comments 🗨️

01/07/2026

💉 My baby was born with striking light blue eyes. My husband doubted his paternity because our eyes were brown. He insisted on a DNA test. When the results came, everyone was stunned by the truth.
For years, my husband and I had dreamed of having a child. 🌟💑 We tried everything—countless tests, treatments, and endless hope. Every month brought a mix of anticipation and disappointment, and yet, we never gave up. Our hearts ached, but our love for each other never wavered.
Finally, one magical day, I discovered I was pregnant. 🤰🌈 The excitement, the joy, the relief—it was overwhelming. After so many years of longing, our dream was finally coming true. We prepared for the baby with tenderness, decorating the nursery, picking tiny clothes, and imagining the life ahead. 🍼💖
Then, the day arrived. Labor was long but beautiful, and when my child was placed into my arms, I felt a wave of pure love. 😍✨ I couldn’t believe our dream had become a reality. But my husband’s reaction was… unexpected.
He stared at our baby with wide eyes, his expression frozen somewhere between astonishment and confusion. 😳 Our child’s eyes—light, sparkling blue—shone up at us. But both my husband and I have brown eyes, and neither of our families has a single person with blue eyes. 💙👀
A heavy silence filled the room. He looked at me, disbelief etched across his face, and in a voice trembling with doubt, he whispered, “This… this isn’t mine. Are you…?” 😔💔 My heart sank. The joy I felt a moment ago was replaced with shock and hurt.
After a tense and tearful discussion, he insisted on a DNA test. 🧬😢 I understood his confusion, yet my heart ached that our first moments of happiness were shadowed by suspicion. Still, we agreed—truth mattered most.
Days passed slowly as we waited for the results. ⏳ Every second was filled with anxious anticipation. I tried to focus on holding our baby, watching the little fingers curl around mine, the soft breathing, the tiny smiles that made my heart melt. 💞👶 But in the back of my mind lingered the fear that doubt could overshadow this miracle.
👉👉👉Finally, the results arrived. I held the paper with trembling hands. When my husband read the DNA answer, he was shocked․ Read more in Comment or Most relevant -> All Comments 🗨️

01/07/2026

🐑 I was quietly folding laundry in the bedroom when a sudden scream from my baby shattered the silence. I rushed into the living room and froze, stunned by the unexpected scene unfolding before me.
I was in the bedroom, folding tiny clothes and enjoying one of those rare moments of calm that come with having a baby. The house was quiet — too quiet, actually — until a sudden, sharp scream shattered everything. It was my baby’s voice. A sound so raw, so frightened, that my heart jumped straight into my throat. 😰🍼💥
I dropped everything and sprinted toward the living room, already imagining a hundred awful possibilities. But nothing — absolutely nothing — could have prepared me for what I saw when I burst through
My baby had climbed onto a chair, gripping the backrest with trembling hands. His eyes were huge, staring at something below him. For a split second, I couldn’t understand what he was looking at… until I followed his gaze. 🪑👶➡️😨
There, under the sofa, was something moving.
Something alive.
Something… with a long, thin tail and a body covered in fur. 🐾🕳️👀
I gasped so loudly that even my baby startled. My legs felt like jelly, but instinct pushed me forward. I grabbed my son off the chair, holding him tight while my heart pounded hard enough to echo in my ears. Whatever that creature was, it was real — and it was right inside our house. 😱💓👐
Horrified, I shouted for my husband. “Come here! Something is under the sofa!” My voice cracked, halfway between panic and disbelief. 🗣️😖
He ran in immediately, still drying his hands with a kitchen towel. He glanced at us, then at the sofa, and I could see a flicker of confusion cross his face before he slowly crouched down. 🔦🧑‍🔧
The creature moved again.
My husband jumped back, then laughed nervously — the exact laugh of someone who wants to sound calm but absolutely is not. “Okay… okay, that’s not a rat… and it’s definitely not a lizard,” he muttered. 😬💦
He reached under the sofa with the towel, gently trying to guide the animal out. For a moment, he managed to catch it. It squirmed and wriggled, but he held on just long enough for me to get a clear look. My jaw dropped. I blinked twice, thinking my eyes were playing tricks on me. 😳👁️👁️
But no — it was real.
The creature wasn’t a rat.
It wasn’t a squirrel.
It wasn’t anything I expected to ever see inside my house. Read more in Comment or Most relevant -> All Comments 🗨️

01/07/2026

🚻 I WALKED INTO COURT IN MY SEAL UNIFORM, MY FATHER CHUCKLED, MY MOTHER SHOOK HER HEAD, BUT THE JUDGE…
The instant I entered, the room went silent. Dad chuckled quietly. Mom shook her head, like I’d embarrassed them again. The judge froze, eyes on the uniform I hadn’t worn in years. His hand trembled. “My god, is that really her?” Every eye turned toward me. Not a sound.
Two days before, while trimming azaleas, the envelope arrived—cream-colored, stamped with Portsmouth Family Court, Virginia. Not an invitation. A summons. Case 4238B.
Carter vs. Carter. Property division petition. I thought it was a mistake. Then I read the names: Robert and Margaret Carter. Defendant: Evelyn Carter. My parents were suing me. Words blurred, then a dry laugh escaped me.
A laugh from someone who’s survived enough absurdity to stop crying. I set the letter on the table, Knox rested his head on my knee. “Guess they found a new way to talk to me,” I muttered. Twelve years since I’d been home.
Last time they saw me, I was in fatigues, just finished BUD/S. Dad absent. Mom texted: “We raised a daughter, not a soldier.” I stopped expecting different. Years serving quietly—missions, men’s lives, logistics.
Not the kind of hero in books, but I carried pride silently. Then an IED near Al-Huda tore through the convoy. Returned with rebuilt knee, limp, pension. Bought a home near Norfolk, fixed it, accepted their silence.
That night, I brewed coffee, opened my Navy chest—smelling of salt and gun oil. Uniform, medals, folded flag from my best friend Lewis. Hands shook lifting it. Knox watched. “They’ll see who I became,” I whispered. Next morning, called courthouse.
“Your parents want property transferred on grounds of abandonment.” Abandonment? I’d been deployed. Must appear in person. Same word Dad used when I enlisted: “You’re abandoning your family.” “No, Dad,” I’d said. “Serving something bigger.” He never forgave me. Drove past farmhouse—half-dead oak, peeling paint, porch sagging. Grandfather built it. Left it to me. Now parents wanted it back.
No anger—just disbelief. Later, crickets buzzing, Knox snoring, I read old CO letter: “Commander Carter, quiet distinction. Honor isn’t always victory. Sometimes it’s courage to show up.” Three times. Brushed uniform, pinned medals.
Next morning, mirror. Jacket tight, weight of purpose. Thought about civilian clothes. No. Smooth collar, hand through hair. “Let’s finish this quietly.” Keys in hand, sunrise gold. Ready.
Portsmouth, humid air. Drive short, stomach twisted. Diner past window—burnt bacon, Ryan’s trophies, no praise for me. Courthouse faded, flag half-staff. Janitor paused at ribbons. “Ma’am.” Families whispered. I sat back, all eyes curious.
Clerk: “Case 4238B, Carter versus Carter.” I rose. Knee ached, steps sure. Parents hit harder than expected. Dad hard stare. Mom stiff, pearls, disappointment. Whisper: “uniform.” They turned.
No lawyer. Didn’t need one.
Judge Simmons entered. Looked, paused. Recognition. “You allege daughter abandoned property.” Dad: “Yes, sir. House empty. We paid everything.” False—I paid taxes since 2013. Judge: “Commander Carter, statement?” Dad blinked. Commander. Heavy. Mom confused. Read more in Comment or Most relevant -> All Comments 🗨️

01/06/2026

🌍 5 mint ago Bridge Destroyed. Read more in Comment or Most relevant -> All Comments 🗨️

01/06/2026

🍢 No Longer a Secret! Prince Andrew Reveals the TRUTH About Prince Harry’s Son Archie After 3 Years Hidden: ‘I Have Discovered Archie’s Real Father, and It Turns Out to Be…’" 👇👇👇 Read more in Comment or Most relevant -> All Comments 🗨️

01/06/2026

🇳 For a month, persistent stomach pain disrupted my days. Feeling increasingly unwell, I finally visited a doctor. His unexpected diagnosis left me speechless and completely shaken.
For almost a month, I woke up every morning with the same heavy ache twisting inside my stomach. At first, I blamed stress, long workdays, even the new diet I had started. But the pain kept returning—slowly, steadily, insistently—like a quiet knock I could no longer ignore. 😣
By the third week, the discomfort had grown into something that practically followed me everywhere. I struggled to sleep, struggled to eat, and often found myself sitting at the edge of my bed wondering what was happening inside my own body. The uncertainty frightened me more than I wanted to admit. 😔
Finally, I decided to visit a doctor. I described every symptom carefully, expecting him to tell me it was something simple. But instead, he paused, frowned slightly, and said words that made my pulse quicken.
He told me something was unusual—very unusual—about the pain I was describing. His voice was calm, but it carried a weight that made my thoughts spin.
His unexpected expression, the careful tone, the seriousness—it all shocked me. 💥
And yet… there were no answers. Only more questions.
That night, I called my mother-in-law. She has always been practical, level-headed, and strangely gifted at cutting straight to the truth. When she heard my symptoms, she didn’t hesitate for even a second.
“Go to the hospital,” she said firmly. “Don’t wait another day.”
Her certainty scared me more than the pain itself. But I listened. The next morning, with trembling hands, I walked into the hospital. My heart thumped as I explained everything to the medical staff. They listened carefully, asked dozens of questions, and exchanged glances that made me hold my breath.
Everyone initially thought it was the gallbladder. The symptoms fit perfectly—at least on paper. The doctor nodded thoughtfully, then sent me for an ultrasound just to be sure.
I lay there on the examination table, cold gel on my skin, the room filled with nothing but the soft hum of the machine. My mind raced through a hundred possible scenarios. None of them were even close to the truth.
And then… something unexpected appeared on the screen.
👉👉👉You won’t want to miss what happens next. Read more in Comment or Most relevant -> All Comments 🗨️

01/06/2026

🛣 María and Teresa Tapia were literally inseparable, born conjoined at the chest. After a complex and risky operation, doctors achieved the impossible — they successfully gave each girl her own independent life.
When María and Teresa Tapia were born, doctors and family alike stood in stunned silence. 😢 The twin girls came into the world joined at the chest and abdomen — their tiny bodies connected by vital organs, their hearts beating almost as one. ❤️
From the very beginning, the odds were stacked against them. The sisters shared a liver, a pancreas, and even parts of their intestines — organs that most doctors would never dare to separate. The chances of survival? Less than one in a hundred thousand. 💔
Yet, their mother, Lisandra, refused to lose hope. 🙏 “They were both fighting to breathe, to live,” she later recalled. “How could I ever stop believing in them?”
For months, the Tapia family lived in uncertainty. Each medical checkup was filled with anxiety — would the twins ever be able to live independent lives? Could science really divide what nature had fused together? 🧬
Then, a team of surgeons at Richmond Children’s Hospital in the United States decided to take the challenge. 💉👩‍⚕️👨‍⚕️ Six specialists from different fields joined forces to plan one of the most complex surgeries ever attempted. For weeks, they trained tirelessly — studying 3D models, rehearsing procedures, and even creating life-sized plaster casts of the twins’ bodies to simulate the operation. 🏥
It wasn’t just doctors who got involved. Students from a nearby university volunteered to design special clothing and recovery aids for the girls. 🎨🧵 Therapists worked on custom tools to help them adapt after separation. It was a collaboration unlike anything seen before — science, art, and compassion coming together for one extraordinary purpose: to give two little girls their own futures. 💫
Finally, the big day arrived. The operation would last more than 20 hours. 😰 Under the bright surgical lights, silence filled the room except for the steady rhythm of heart monitors. Bead by bead of sweat rolled down the surgeons’ faces as they carefully separated shared veins and reconstructed organs for each twin.
👉👉👉Today the girls have grown up and are living full lives. Read more in Comment or Most relevant -> All Comments 🗨️

01/06/2026

👧 My husband discovered a tiny creature near our house. Initially, he assumed it was a mouse, but upon closer inspection, he realized it was an unfamiliar animal, unlike anything he had seen before.
One sunny morning, my husband was walking around the yard when he froze. Something small and quick caught his eye near the corner of the house 🧐. At first, he thought it was just a mouse 🐭, scurrying about, but curiosity made him crouch down and look closer. That’s when he realized… this was no ordinary mouse.
I joined him moments later, curious about his sudden excitement. “What is it?” I asked, leaning over to see the tiny creature. 🫣 My husband pointed and whispered, “I think… it’s something unusual. Look at how tiny it is!”
The little animal had a pointed nose, delicate whiskers, and eyes that shone with alert intelligence 👀. It moved quickly, almost like it was dancing across the ground. I was mesmerized. It seemed so fragile, yet so full of life 💖.
As we observed quietly, the creature paused, sniffing the air, and I could see every minute detail. Its fur was soft and gray, blending perfectly with the soil. The tiny feet barely made a sound as it moved. It was a delicate, almost magical little being ✨.
We went online to identify it, scrolling through images and descriptions. Hours passed, and our excitement grew. Read more in Comment or Most relevant -> All Comments 🗨️

01/06/2026

🇸 I spotted my daughter sleeping in a van at a gas station—with her child. I asked where the apartment I bought her was. She broke down and told me her husband and his mother threw her out. I told her to grab her things and come with me.
The gas station lights hummed overhead, harsh and unforgiving, washing everything in that pale glow that makes even good days look tired. I’d pulled in for water and a break for my knees when I noticed the van tucked off to the side, trying not to be seen.
A woman slept upright in the front seat, head resting against the window.
A small boy lay curled in the back, shoes still on, arms wrapped tight around himself like he’d learned how to take up as little space as possible.
Something in my chest dropped.
I walked closer, already knowing before she opened her eyes. The shape of her face. The crease between her brows that used to show up when she was little and stubborn.
I tapped the window softly.
Her eyes fluttered. For a moment she looked past me, like she’d trained herself not to hope. Then recognition hit.
“Dad?” Her voice cracked.
“Maya,” I said, and felt my throat close. “What are you doing out here?”
She tried to sit up, but her body moved slow, like it was running on empty. The boy stirred, blinked once, then turned away, as if waking cost more than he could afford.
I kept my voice even. “Where’s the apartment I paid for? The place you said you finally had.”
Her face collapsed. Tears spilled fast, unchecked.
“Marcus and his mom changed the locks,” she said, scrubbing her cheeks with a sleeve that wasn’t warm enough. “They said I had no right to it. No right to anything.” She swallowed hard. “They pushed me and Malik out. They kept the baby inside.”
My hands shook—not from age, but from a fury so sharp it felt clean.
I opened the van door. The air smelled like old snacks and fuel.
“Get out,” I said. “You’re coming with me. Now.”
At my rental, Maya perched on the edge of the couch like she was waiting to be told she didn’t belong. Malik flinched at every noise, watching my hands when I offered him food, like kindness might turn on him.
I didn’t sleep.
I pulled down an old box I hadn’t opened since my wife passed and found the blue folder I’d kept without ever admitting why. Inside were printouts—dates, transfers, Marcus’s name. And a note in my wife’s handwriting, faint but unmistakable:
If this ever stops being for Maya and the kids, don’t stay quiet.
By morning, I’d called Xavier—an old friend who understands paperwork the way mechanics understand engines.
Two days later, we went to the condo.
Marcus showed up polished and smiling, like he’d rehearsed. Beatatrice stood beside him, perfect hair, cold mouth.
“She left,” Marcus said loudly, for the lobby to hear. “She’s confused.”
Maya’s knees almost gave out. “You locked me out,” she whispered. “You kept my baby.”
Security hovered nearby, already deciding who the problem was.
That night, a woman with a clipboard knocked on my door for a “welfare check.” Malik panicked. Maya went pale. My neighbor stepped in before things spiraled.
Afterward, he leaned close and said, “There were cameras. The night she was locked out. Someone reviewed the footage.”
We went back to the building office.
The manager said, “We usually keep recordings thirty days.”
My stomach sank.
Then a guard walked in—Daryl—and said simply, “I remember that night. I saw the clip. It’s backed up on the main server.”
Xavier met my eyes. Maya gripped my sleeve, shaking.
Because Marcus could smile.
And Beatatrice could change locks.
But neither of them could erase what the hallway cameras already captured. Read more in Comment or Most relevant -> All Comments 🗨️

01/06/2026

🌷 The PTA president sneered at my grieving 7-year-old at the Father-Daughter dance: “Poor thing, if you don’t have a dad, don’t come here just to feel sad. This party is for complete families.” Just as my daughter began to cry, the hall doors burst open. A 4-star General walked in, followed by 10 other soldiers. He knelt before my daughter: “Sorry I’m late.”
"Honestly, dear," Brenda announced, her shrill voice cutting through the music, "if you don't have a dad, you shouldn't have come here just to feel sorry for yourself. This party is for complete families. You’re ruining the vibe. Go home to your mother."
The PTA President's words landed with the force of a physical blow. Lily’s head dropped, the glittery butterflies in her hair trembling. The first tear, heavy and hot, splashed onto the lilac tulle dress she had cherished for months.
Around them, people just stared. No one stepped in to defend a seven-year-old girl whose father had died in combat just six months prior.
A primal rage detonated in my chest. I was no longer Sarah, the grieving widow. I was a mother wolf. I shoved a man in a tuxedo aside, ready to tear that cruel woman apart. But just as my hand reached for Brenda’s shoulder, the atmosphere in the room shifted violently.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
A rhythmic concussion traveled through the floorboards, drowning out the music. The double doors of the gym were thrown open. Standing in the blinding hallway light were not fathers in rented tuxedos.
They were giants.
Leading them was a man with hair like brushed steel, his chest a blinding constellation of medals. He wore the full dress uniform of a four-star General. Behind him marched ten Marines in dress blues, white gloves flashing, moving in terrifying synchronization like a storm made of steel.
Brenda’s mouth fell open. Her wine glass slipped from her fingers and shattered, echoing like a gunshot. The soldiers didn't blink. They marched straight through the debris, fanning out to create a living wall of blue and gold, shielding Lily from the crowd.
The General stopped inches from my daughter. He ignored Brenda completely, looking at her as if she were merely an obstacle. Slowly, he went down on one knee, his crisp uniform creaking with authority. He reached out a white-gloved hand to wipe away the tear Brenda had caused.
The room held its breath.
"Lily," he said, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to shake the very walls. "I am General Sterling. I am so sorry I am late. But your father made me promise him one thing..." Read more in Comment or Most relevant -> All Comments 🗨️

01/05/2026

🕝 By the time I realized the figure at the tree line was my daughter, I was already running.
I’d just pulled into our driveway after a 12-hour shift at the hospital, still in my scrubs, brain halfway between charting and what to make for dinner. My plan was simple: park the car, walk down to my parents’ house four doors away, pick up the kids, and be in bed by nine.
That plan evaporated the second I saw movement at the edge of the woods behind our house.
Something small stumbled out from between the trees, a pale blur against the deep green. At first I thought it was a neighbor’s kid cutting through the property. Then the bundle in their arms shifted, and a tiny arm flopped out, the way toddlers’ arms do when they’re boneless with sleep.
My heart stopped.
It was Maisie.
My seven-year-old was carrying her baby brother.
Her hair, usually smooth and pulled back in a braid, was tangled with leaves and pine needles. Her unicorn t-shirt was ripped at the shoulder, streaked with dirt. Her feet were bare, leaving faint reddish smears in the grass with every step. Scratches covered her arms from wrist to elbow, some thin and white, others angry and dark.
She was exhausted. I could see it in the way her knees wobbled, in the glassy look in her eyes. But she kept her arms locked around Theo, pressing him to her chest like he was the only solid thing left in the world.
“Maisie!” I screamed, my hospital bag hitting the driveway as I launched forward. “Maisie, baby, I’m here!”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t even look up. Her lips were dry, cracked. When I got close enough to see her face, I nearly dropped to my knees. A bruise was blooming along her cheekbone. There were faint marks on her upper arm that looked like finger shapes.
“Theo,” I gasped, reaching for him.
She flinched back, tightening her grip. “No,” she croaked, voice rough and tiny. “I have to keep him safe.”
“Honey, it’s Mommy.” I forced my voice steady even as my vision blurred. “You did so good. You kept him safe. Let me hold him now, okay? Let me help.”
It took three tries and every soothing tone I had ever used on frightened patients before she finally let me ease him out of her arms. The moment his weight left her, her whole body sagged. I caught her with my free hand as her legs gave out.
We collapsed together on the grass — my son limp but breathing against my shoulder, my daughter trembling in my lap. I cupped her face, turning it so I could see her eyes. They were red-rimmed and dazed, with little clean tracks cutting through the dirt on her cheeks where tears had fallen.
“What happened?” I asked, my own voice barely audible over the rush of blood in my ears. “Who did this to you? Where were you?”
Her bottom lip quivered. More tears spilled over, soaking into the collar of my scrub top.
She swallowed, tried once, then tried again. When she finally spoke, her whisper made my whole body go cold.
“Grandma left us in the car,” she said. “And then Grandpa came… and his eyes looked wrong.” Read more in Comment or Most relevant -> All Comments 🗨️

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