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Chapter 43: Red Blurred Into Orange (2)
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Chapter 45: Seeing the Light (1)
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... and cool—cold as the hands of the greens.
Maybe that’s why I hate them.
Because they remind me of myself.
Not for their blood, their hierarchy, or their poison-colored skin, but because every time I see one, I see what I could have become. What I still might be.
I let the thought go.
The girl is still sleeping.
The sun rose a few hours ago, and though the day is short—sixteen hours at most—I know reds need more rest than us. Inferior circulation. F ...
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