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... , painting the sky the color of old bruises. My lungs felt raw, scraped clean by smoke and panic. Every muscle screamed for rest, but rest was a luxury the dead could afford, not me.
The docks were quieter than they should have been. No longshoremen shouting, no creak of cranes, no slap of ropes against masts. Only the low, uneasy murmur of water against pilings and the occasional distant scream carried on the wind from deeper in the city. Most of the smaller fishing boats had already fl ...
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