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When Childe had been younger, forged fresh from the blood of the Abyss, he had no way to tell his mother that each stroke of her hand against his hair felt like a reprimand. A holy burn against some unholy creature. The touches he longed for in the dark had hurt and ached and left an itch that could only be scratched by violence. By then, even without the words to describe it, he knew; all things good were no longer for him.
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Hmm thật khó hiểu và dễ hiểu cùng lúc