The Distant Ghost
The first crack runs through the left kneecap like a lightning strike frozen in amber. You are standing in the center of the warehouse, the air thick with the smell of ozone and old dust, and you feel the joint shatter, not with pain, but with a cold, heavy finality. This is the beginning of the end, or perhaps, the true beginning of what you are. Your body is a map of betrayal, a territory...
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