Marlowe: (gasping) Neptune’s ocean shall not wash my blood clean from thy hand.
Shakespeare: Forgive me, Kit. But the world must never know the extent of your genius. Your plays, your words… they will be mine.
As Marlowe slumps to the floor, Shakespeare quickly gathers the manuscripts.
Shakespeare: You were the greatest, Marlowe. But now, you make me immortal with your death.
Exiting the tavern into the dark, cobblestone streets of Deptford, Shakespeare disappears into the night, Marlowe’s masterpieces in his possession.
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