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... his hand.
Oliver's grip tightened around the scissors, and a pulse of hunger surged through him. It wasn't physical—it was a gnawing, insidious urge deep within his mind, urging him forward. The scissors weren't just vibrating randomly. No. They were pulling him. Guiding him. A whispering, invisible force.
His pulse quickened.
No. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay still. This wasn't right. The scissors—they were made for this. Made for cutting, for butchering. ...
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