The Golden Compass
The blood was warm. It ran down my wrist, pooling in the creases of my uniform cuff. I did not wipe it. I held the man down. He kicked. His boots struck my shins, a dull, rhythmic thud against the damp floorboards. I pressed my knee into his chest. I looked into his eyes. They were wide. White. Terrified. "Stay down, Miller," I said. My voice was low. It did not shake. He spat at me. A glob of...
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