PREVIEW

... loods into his brain, and something feels wrong.

There’s no pain, no bar, no blood, and no bullets.

Instead, he’s seated on a worn vinyl bench, wrapped in the scent of sweat, chalk, and oil. There’s duct tape on the walls. A dented water cooler in the corner.

Is this... some kind of memory? A dream? Some post-death delusion?

He lowers his head, trying to calm his nerves. But something flickers at the edge of his vision, a ripple, like heat distortion bending the a ...

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