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I opened my fist, and the crimson blood pooled in my palm, glistening under the dim light. It reeked—copper, iron, the raw stink of life—a scent so sharp it burned in the lungs. The liquid throbbed, alive, waiting.
I held it out to him, let him see it, let him understand.
But his eyes—oh, his eyes.
Blank. Empty. Void of fire. Void of resistance. The eyes of a man already dead, though his body had yet to catch up.
Pathetic.
He had given up too easi ...
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