[The masked figure, for what little it's worth, has thrown themself flat into the leaf-mulch as soon as they breached the tree-line, concealing the pale blur of the jacket on their shoulders, the round, bright disc of their face, in the arching of the ferns and the black tangle of the surrounding bracken.
Their breath escapes in ragged wisps, low, painful drags, hands pressed across the burning along the length of that wide, terrible wound.
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Their breath escapes in ragged wisps, low, painful drags, hands pressed across the burning along the length of that wide, terrible wound.
But...alive.
Alive, and free.]