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... ic, rhythmic hum filled the silence of Silas Veil’s room.

He slouched on the leather couch, which was in a terrible condition; one of his legs was lying on top of the coffee table as the other dangled over, just like that of a dead man’s arm.

His T-shirt was stretched and stained with his sweat; a cigarette burn was next to his collar. One of his hands was buried beneath the thin fabric of his tee, scratching furiously at a dead patch on his skin, which refused to stop itching. < ...

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