Galen turns from the table, slowly wiping blood from his hands onto a linen cloth, his gaze drifting between the stacked silver coins and the shadowed doorway to the wounded fighter. Lamplight glints across the coins as a faint draft stirs a hanging scroll. His expression is unreadable, calculating. A quiet, chilling sense of a man reduced to currency. Slow push-in on his face. Camera locked an...
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