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ALZAR WAS ALIVE.

His knees gave out as he fell to the ground, blood soaking down his coat. The gun slipped from his hands as he groped the back of his head, fresh skin stretching over the bloody, gaping hole in his skull.

Alzar covered his mouth with his hands, a low whine in the back of his throat.

There was no way he was alive. He shouldn't be alive. He had shot himself point-blank. No one was supposed to live from that.

It didn't even hurt.

He was covered in his own blood, but his head was entirely intact. His body had healed itself.

Alzar screamed, dragging his nails down the side of his scalp. He barely even felt the lifeless arm slide around his shoulders, the curve of Fancy’s chest lost on his numb skin. His eyes rolled back, seeing her but not processing her presence.

“You shouldn't have done that, Alzar,” Fancy chastised softly, “But it will be okay now.”

Alzar pawed at her porcelain skin with muddy fingers, hanging onto handfuls of her satin dress as if his life depended on it. She was the only stability he could feel.

“I know you're scared right now, but it will get better.”

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