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... as now a vessel of cold, unflinching fury. There wasn't a flicker of remorse in him for killing the fat man—understandable, given the torment he endured. But now, as he stood over the smashed skulls of two guards stationed outside the chamber, their blood pooling beneath his feet, he felt nothing. No pity. No regret.

For him, their deaths were justified. They had been complicit. They had kept him locked away, standing guard while that grotesque excuse for a man tortured him for amusement ...

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