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e, pressing in on me from all sides, a wa
rom the speakers. It was Scarlett' s, a perfect, studio-polished product of technology and
of Scarlett overlaid on my body, my voice digitally reshaped into hers. For six months, he' d been systematical
y in-ear monitor, icy and sharp. "Don't br
pushed past the modulation, letting a raw note escape, the hologram flickered vi
. "What the hell do you think you
lming nausea – a feeling I' d been ignoring for weeks. The reali
of the man actively erasing my identity,
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