“The simulacrum tilts its head, just like Darin used to. “They’re hurting me, Laia.” It’s not Darin. My mind is slipping. This is guilt, fear. The voice changes, twisting and layering as if there are three Darins all talking at once. The light in the fake-Darin’s eyes goes out as quickly as a sun in a storm, and his irises darken into black pits, as if his entire body is filled with shadow. “I won’t survive it, Laia. It hurts.” The.”
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