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... h the sickle, only to stop dead in our tracks. The fluorescent light above Choi's office door flickers erratically, illuminating a scene that makes my throat constrict.
A mass of figures stands clustered around his door - seven, maybe eight of them - but they barely look human anymore. They sway slightly in unison, like seaweed in a dark current. Their flesh bears the same signs of decay as the man with the sickle: patches of skin sloughing off, exposed areas black with rot, clothes hang ...
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