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At first he thought he was imagining things. Imagining the cool touch of something against his leg, feather-like touches inching ever so slightly higher and higher. How could he not when every time he lifted the blanket, he saw nothing there?
Was it a phantom sensation, Kim Dokja thought, slapping a hand against his upper calf, where he had felt something brush by him. His hands only make into contact with his own skin and nothing else, but he could feel it slide up to the back of his knee, curl around his upper thigh, and edge up the leg opening of his shorts.
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