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There's a chillingly empty sensation in the pit of my stomach. Not painful, but so very unpleasant. I know what it is. But I try and ignore it.

Time passes—seconds, minutes... I've no idea—until I eventually release her and reholster my weapon beneath my sodden T-shirt.

"Who did this to you?"

I'm quite positive, now, that the culprits have already been dealt with. And I know she won't answer. But I have to ask.

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