The Manufactured Man

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2026-06-03 00:40:24 -

She looked twelve years old. Her eyes did not. Alistair Blackwood sat across from Isolde Marlowe in his clinic off Merrion Square and watched her turn a page of the book she was reading. She was small for her age—too small, some might say—and her hands, resting on the open pages, were delicate and pale, the hands of a child. But the way she held the book, the way she paused between sentences...

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