The Distant Ghost
The mud is cold. It seeps into your boots, a physical weight that anchors you to the earth while the sky above churns with static and rain. You are moving. You are not running, but the pace is fast, a relentless march through the gray nothing. Your rifle is heavy. It is a tool, a piece of engineering designed for precision, yet in your hands it feels like a limb that has grown too long. You...
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