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... ers standing around or laying on the wooden floor, everyone else presumably dead, injured, or off fighting in a pit. He remembered Ponda’s big meaty hand on the back of his neck, guiding him along the walkways above the pits, then his gruff, “You got maybe an hour ‘til your last fight.” Then Victor had stumbled, still soaked in sticky blood, to the wall and collapsed.

His mind was blissfully blank; he’d started with some self-loathing about killing that girl, but it didn’t stick. He hard ...

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