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It was the kind of silence designed for recovery, with thick curtains drawn against the dawn, wood floors softened by layered rugs, and the low hum of heating already adjusted for his shivering skin. Elias stood in the entryway, barefoot and bleeding, the hem of his shirt clinging to his side, the chill of early morning clashing with the sweat dried along the back of his neck.
He didn’t move until the door shut behind him with a soft click.
Robert Moore, the driver, steppe ...
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