PREVIEW
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The middle-aged man reeked of alcohol, his eyes unfocused, as if he had drunk himself into a stupor, and a few dry, hard buns still lay in the bowl before him.
This refugee shelter, while ostensibly a haven for refugees, was known to the people of the Capital City as a den of beggars.
The deeper one went inside, the more foul-smelling it became.
Those refugees, clad in tattered clothes, hadn’t bathed for many days; their hair was matted together. With the summer h ...
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