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... horizon. Cracks glowed with molten orange, bleeding lava like open wounds. The scent of scorched flesh clung to the wind—metallic, thick, and disturbingly sweet. Like burnt sugar mixed with a murder scene.
Yeaga squinted through the haze. "Anyone else smell barbecue and PTSD?"
From atop a jagged red outcrop, a barefoot figure dropped down. Sweat gleamed across their flame-kissed skin. A severed arm hung from their mouth like a snack. They bit off a chunk, chewing absently, as if ...
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