The Wistful Dinner
The mud is thick and red, sucking at your boots as you drag the broken barrel across the churned earth, the rain hammering the tin roof of the outpost with a rhythm that feels less like weather and more like the heavy, indifferent pulse of a machine that has forgotten how to stop. You are alone here, or rather, you are the only one who is not being hunted, for the fog has swallowed the rest of...
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