The Wistful Asylum
The muzzle flash is not a sound but a physical blow, a white-hot hammer striking the inside of your skull as you drive the butt of the service rifle into the gut of the man in the grey coat, who drops with a wet, heavy thud against the wet cobblestones of the London alleyway, his eyes wide with a confusion that mirrors your own, because he is wearing your face, not literally, but in the...
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