
HOW MANY TIMES has he done this: stand before the ghost of a former friend && name him a traitor. Yet the ragged, gaping emptiness inside him refuses to be mended, && to render him cold && perfect; as distant from his pain as the sharp point of a lone star. But it’s still there, beneath the seething black hatred && obedient ferocity. The pain stays, intertwined with anger. It’s a bitter wound he carries inside, but it makes him strong.
❝ Have you come to die? ❞ It makes him devastating.
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