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"Not this. Not again."

He stared at the ceiling with the hollow eyes of a man who had seen his own beaten and bruised body—in various painful renditions—too many times.

Feng Yin was still asleep, her hand curled around his like the elegant sleeping phoenix she was.

Little Mei on his left, trying to smear his arm with her bosomy dior.

Drowsy sat on his chest like a demonic paperweight, blinking once before letting out a single, melodic chirp.

"You’re s ...

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