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Blood. Sweat. Fear.
The room was cramped—more like a storage closet than a place for someone to sleep. The walls were cracked, dotted with moisture stains that spoke of years of neglect.
In the corner, what passed for a bed was really just broken furniture—old wooden planks, a torn mattress, some cloth—all arranged haphazardly by Black, who’d probably done the best he could with what little they had.
And there, on that makeshift bed, was the young woman.
Bell ...
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