The Golden Master
The pain in my left hand was a specific, rhythmic thing, a hammering that synced with the thud of my own heart against my ribs, and I kept my eyes fixed on the mud at my feet because if I looked up I would see the face of the man I was trying to kill, and if I saw his face I would remember that he was my brother, or at least the man who had taken my place in the world, and the geometry of the...
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