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Somewhere above reality, in the sacred crawlspaces where only dust bunnies and plot advancement dared linger, a tiny, lava-veined squirrel of fury and flames skittered through a ventilation shaft.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The sound of his claws echoed faintly, matching the rhythm of his determined little heartbeat.
Behind him oozed a slithering black tendril of molten slime—Blargh’s other pinky, crawling like a gooey worm possessed by sarcasm and suppressed commentary. ...
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