His hunger made everything shimmer with painful clarity. He lived in lavish apartments but he looked out of place among them, like an actor in a set; there was nothing of his personality in the rooms at all. The scent of crushed grass and stale wine rose up ripely through the heat of dancing bodies, and the canvas roof was wreathed in smoke. On amethyst-cold slopes of cloud they struggled, Kristian lunging for Karl's throat with bared fangs, Karl thrusting him off with all his strength.
Her head ached, her mouth was dry and sticky. Somehow he made the world safe again. Help me… help me to make an end of him. I hate myself for not feeling guilty.
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