She holsters her gun, stepping away from the corpse, and waits for the duelist count to go down. A full minute passes. The count stays at eleven. Impossible—the system updates within seconds, if not the very moment the duelist’s brain terminates and the final shred of consciousness succumbs. Recadat stands there, turning cold as her lover sidles up behind her, placing a snakeskin-gloved hand in the small of her back. “My bad,” they purr against her neck. “Even I make mistakes, jewel. But it is as I said, everyone who lives on Septet consents to this potential fate. Don’t think anything of it.
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