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... not shake or shiver; his body was used to the cold.
He was in a small, old bathroom, with a rusted shower placed so close to the faded toilet that Mr. Valen could only applaud the space management of the architect.
The soap he used smelled stale, expired if that was even possible, but that was nothing compared to the almost overpowering scent of bleach that invaded his nostrils.
"Your clothes are in the washer," a female voice called out, forcing Mr. Valen to look toward ...
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