29.04.2026, 18:21
The body in the doorway lay so deliberately, so theatrically, that it seemed printer’s ink should flow from its wounds instead of blood. An arm was stretched forward—fingers clenched into a fist, as if the man had tried to grasp the air, to seize the moment that existed before the click. The uniform was Polish. Real. The man was not. The man was from a prison; they had dressed him in that uniform six hours ago, and now he lay motionless
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