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... ven's ears like parasites wanting in.

A living man would flinch. Shame, that resilient weed, tried to root deep. For half a blink, he could feel phantom iron at his throat, cold and unyielding.

But Draven was ready.

Beneath his coat, etched along the ribcage, runes glowed a muted cobalt—self-hypnosis matrices he'd inked during lonely watch-nights months ago. One rune flared, signaling the first mental lock. Compartmentalize. The entire illusion compressed, forced into an ...

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