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... igues, no insignia, no name tag.
Just a boy, maybe twenty, maybe less.
Gloved hands.
Pale neck.
A single, clean bullet wound through the chest.
Behind him, Rousseau's boots crunched through the frost, clipboard under one arm, a cigarette bent between his lips.
He paused, surveyed the body, then exhaled slow.
"That makes seventy-two confirmed enemy corpses," he muttered. "Plenty more in the brush. Some of 'em crawled off before dying."
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