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It still didn’t sit clean.
He crouched lower, resting his weight on his heels, eyes tracking the uneven join between the intake chamber and the anchor frame. The flame aperture was drifting half a claw-width from its guide rail. Not enough to shatter. Just enough to whisper doubt.
He reached for the scraper. Adjusted it again.
Then stared.
It was quiet. Not peaceful. The kind of quiet that pressed against the back of your thoughts and made you start wonderin ...
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