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03.09.2026, 16:54
The first thing she felt was a hand. Not a familiar one. Not the palm she knew better than anything in the world — thin, dry, hot — not Miko’s hand. This hand was different: large, heavy, in a thick cotton glove. It moved methodically, professionally, without hesitation and without pity: along her ribs, over her hips, across the folds of her dirty school skirt. The movements were functional. The hand was checking. The hand was searching for a hidden threat — ceramic death
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