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PREVIEW
... The Dream That Splits
After my sixth bottle, I exhaled the kind of sigh that felt like surrender in carbonated form. There was simply no hope — not with this pisswater alcohol, not with this overclocked liver that filtered like a sanctimonious nun judging the fun out of every molecule. "Next enhancement cycle," I muttered into the bottle’s neck like a man confessing to a beer priest, "I’m engineering a failsafe — something that toggles tolerance on and off like a kill switch for joy." < ...
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