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Chapter 47: The Source of all Tragedy
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... erly warmth.
Not much of it, barely enough to notice, but Manson had been running on so little for so long that even that small amount felt like standing next to a fire in winter.
He’d listened to him. The blood-pull was unmistakable, he’d known from the first moment that this was his actual father, whatever else the man was.
Did he hate him? Of course he did. His entire childhood had been shaped by that absence, the specific cruelty that other children reserved for kids ...
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