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... ent, jagged stone, slick with moss and age. A choking scent of blood and rot clung to the stale air, heavy and oppressive. The faint metallic tang of flesh hung so thick, it coated the tongue like ash.

Patches of blood painted the walls in grotesque splatters, some still fresh enough to drip down slowly, crawling like tears down a corpse's cheek.

Everything was still. Still and silent.

Too silent.

Like a predator's den, waiting for movement. Waiting to strike.

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