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... sting of the medbay still clung to his jacket, clashing with the reek of blood and smoke embedded in the fabric.
He sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tight enough to blanch his knuckles. He hadn’t spoken since the debrief. The red light on the recorder had gone dark twenty minutes ago, but he hadn’t moved.
His rifle lay in pieces on the floor beside him, uncleaned. The chamber smelled of oil and blood.
Harlow was asleep two beds over — or seda ...
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