The Distant Blade
The moss on your left thumb is the color of dried blood. It has been growing there for three days, a verdant stain that refuses to scrub away, spreading its mycelial networks into the crevices of your nail bed. You look at it in the harsh, flickering light of the server room, the air thick with the ozone scent of overheating silicon and the faint, sweet rot of decaying leaves. You are not...
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