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... r exist, every gap is filled with black mucus, they surge, roll over, stationed silently in the dark corners, seamlessly integrated with the train.

It's as if they were born here in the first place, grew up, and thrived.

Here is their lair, which they name death.

Life is the nourishment of death.

They have been silent, hiding in every corner that humans have never discovered.

In the peripheral vision of the perspective, in the illusion of turning around, behind ...

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