The Pale Exile
The fracture in your left tibia does not heal in a straight line, but rather splinters into a jagged, crystalline constellation that you can feel humming beneath the skin like a live wire in a dead house. You are sitting on the edge of a cot in a sterile, white-walled unit of the Metropolitan Correctional Center, and the pain is not a dull ache but a sharp, rhythmic tearing that syncs perfectly...
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