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... inhale clawing at his ribs like the air itself wanted to slow him down. He pressed a palm to the wall to steady himself, the rough, flaking paint scratching at his skin. His lungs burned.

"Fuck..." he panted, forcing the word out between shallow breaths, "...thank God I didn’t look back. Now she wouldn’t know my face..."

The relief was a fragile thing, brittle enough that a single thought could shatter it.

It was treason in the highest form to ever think of rebellion. Mor ...

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