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He looked at me like I was a failing campaign he was personally assigned to turn around with a massive budget and no oversight.
The scaffolding groaned beneath us, a rusted skeleton articulating our shared sins against the backdrop of a cold, indifferent New England sky.
He watched the way the silk fought against the curve of her hip, a tactical disadvantage he was more than happy to exploit.
He smelled like the cold iron of the High Seat and the particular, ozone-heavy static that preceded a total collapse of the Sunder.