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... st.
Elena had been awake for hours — or maybe days. The cold iron wrapped around her wrist like a cruel bracelet, locked to the wrought-iron frame of a bed too elegant for a place this grim. Sunlight filtered in through a cracked window, catching the dust that floated like ash in the air. Somewhere outside, the groans of the infected rose and fell like a haunting lullaby.
She didn’t remember how she got here.
Only fragments.
Running through a field of burning cars ...
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