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... t wasn't even dramatic.
I didn't claw my way out of death. No radiant fire. No divine chorus. No system singing my praises for being too stubborn to stay dead.
I woke up in a bed made of half-burned mosscloth, under a roof that still smelled like emergency tarp, with a medical flag flapping above me that someone had drawn with their foot. Probably Quicktongue.
Everything hurt. Except the part that should have—the chest.
That? That felt... warm. Not good-warm. Not ...
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