The Amber Marrow
The amber light caught the dust motes dancing above Thomas Harrow's broken spine as he pushed himself upright for the third time. His right arm hung useless, the bone protruding through torn fabric like splintered wood from a ship's hull. His left leg was bent at an angle no leg should bend. Blood pooled beneath him on the cobblestones of Manchester's worst district, spreading outward like ink...
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