The Distant Whispers
The blood was on his sleeve. It was bright and wet. He wiped it on his trousers. The fabric was grey wool. It tore. He did not care. The man on the ground was still moving. He kicked him again. The bone cracked. There was a sound like dry wood breaking. He stood over the body. The air was cold. It cut through his uniform. He was a police officer. He knew the rules. He knew the law. But the man...
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