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... d.

It clung to his skin with a heat that didn’t belong to the jungle. Not physical. Not natural. Memory heat. Soul heat. The kind of warmth that left burns on the inside of your ribs, even when your body didn’t scar.

Atlas flexed his fingers slowly.

Each joint cracked with the precision of a knife being unsheathed. His palm ached—not from pain, but from use. From the motion of ripping hearts free of their cage. From the silence that came after.

He closed his eyes. ...

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