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... ing over the blood-slick asphalt of the South LA outskirts. The air was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder and scorched metal, the morning sun casting a sickly yellow glow over the carnage. He killed the engine, and the three of them—Jason, Harley, and Christine—stepped out, their boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. The scene before them was a fucking nightmare: bodies strewn across the road like discarded dolls, the pavement stained crimson, wisps of smoke curling from the wreckage ...
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