The Golden Master
"You're bleeding," Margot says, her voice flat, stripped of the warmth that used to wrap around our shared silences like wool. She stands in the doorway of the boiler room, where the air is thick with the taste of rust and burnt coal, and her eyes are fixed not on me, but on the floor, where a dark, viscous puddle is spreading across the soot-stained concrete. I look down. My hand, the one...
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