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... his mornings doing two things, with the robotic precision of a well-oiled machine.
First, he drank tea that tasted suspiciously like regret boiled in ditchwater. It was served communal-style in cracked ceramic bowls, a lukewarm, vaguely earthy liquid that somehow managed to be both bland and offensive. He’d tried to analyze its chemical composition, but his internal processor had simply labeled it: "Nutritional Value: Negligible. Flavor Profile: Existential Dread." He d ...
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