Nikolaisleftballsack
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Your sustenance awaits, dear Fyodor,” he says, his voice pitched in that familiar carnival lilt—the one he uses when he wants the world to see only the mask, never the face beneath. But today it rings hollow, like a bell without its clapper, like a song sung in an empty hall. “Shall I feed you like a fledgling too weak to leave its nest? Or will you pretend your hands still know how to wrap around a spoon without shaking?”
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