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... ripping from the fresh cut over his ribs, splattering across the black glass beneath his knees. The shadows in the mirror shards drank it up, grin after grin flickering to life, teeth sharp behind the cracked reflections.

The Thorn behind his ribs pulsed raw — no hush silk to dull its bite, no frost crown to weave it shut. Just the jagged truth of him: wide open, warmth blooming ruin where hush roots once braided him soft.

"Good boy," the shadows cooed — dozens of Ren’s grinning ...

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