PREVIEW
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Tell any normal—sane—person that twelve hours ago, I had a friend die in my arms. Now I’m having vent-flirting banter with the walking brand logo of the pharmaceutical world.
And all while being held by a man who collects omega body parts like trophies—in jars—in his basement.
Taxidermy shouldn’t be hot, but maybe that was the gas talking. Or the adrenaline. Or just how drained I am—body, mind, soul.
The result was the same. I passed out.
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