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Summary
“I…” His voice came out low and rough, the first sound from his throat since—since dying. He paused, surprised for a moment that he could speak at all. The taste of blood, the metallic bite of his final moments, still lingered somewhere in memory, but physically he felt none of it now. He cleared his throat softly. “I’m afraid I have no strong opinion on cake slices,” he answered, each word careful. “To me, all slices are the same.”