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“Where would we have gone, anyway?” Till is unable not to ask. The desert comes with a sky that’s all but fake; framed by the sharp corners of the vehicle is an endless sea of bright scarlet, scarred and stitched up by falling tears of gold and swirling nebulas. Till remembers running. In that hallucinating haze, he cannot phantom a good enough reason to dig his heels in and stop. “We pass that glitch in the gates to get out, and we run — and then what?”
Ivan hums. His clothes are a confusing bundle — the too-long pants from the Garden, the rain-soaked jacket from the stage. His fringe is scarlet wet, plastered against his forehead.
“Who knows,” he offers.
or: Till leaves Round 7 on his own feet. The rest is consequential.
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beautifully written
