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... , to the invisible ink-ghost floating behind my left shoulder. The Editor didn’t respond. He just hovered there, looking like a doodle someone had forgotten to erase, radiating a smug sense of satisfaction about the "sonic typewriter" maneuver.
I shoved the ID card deep into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the cold plastic. Beware the Editor.
Great. My only guide to this broken world was apparently a double agent. Or a glitch. Or something worse.
"Ren," Tybalt groa ...
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