The Distant Wound

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2026-08-18 07:47:32 -

The Distant Wound

The red paint was wet. It glistened on the white marble of the Capitol steps, a visceral, arterial streak that pulsed under the harsh, artificial sun. Mara wiped her hands on her jeans. The friction smelled of iron and fear. She looked down. The stain was permanent. Or so she thought. "You did it," said Julian. He stood ten feet away. His face was a mask of polite horror. His tie was undone....

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