Coronation Of A Disaster
Armano stood there.
He was in full riot gear—black tactical vest, heavy boots, helmet with the visor pushed back. A rifle was slung over his shoulder, and a sidearm was holstered at his thigh. He looked like he had stepped out of a dystopian future. He was covered in soot, and a small cut above his eyebrow was welling with blood.
He stepped forward, grabbing my arm and hauling me up. His grip was iron, bruising.
"Are you insane?" he hissed, his face inches from mine. His eyes were wild, frantic—not with fear, but with a terrifying, focused rage. "Do you have a death wish?"
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