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Hours later, in the gloom of the lab’s cramped bathroom, Jayce can still feel those metallic fingers, closing around his throat. Crushing his windpipe, seconds away from snapping his neck. The skin is discoloured, bruises blooming like a collar, a brand. It burns to touch.
So much of him does, these days.
OR: a study of Jayce's mindset in the hours before the battle. Councilor Crashout doing what he does best.
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