5:54, and nightmares still swirl in a post-sleep
afterimage.
Angela sighs.
After all, she’s sick of it.
The life she’s got, that is.
The life of crouching on the top of an anonymous brick building at 1:26 in the morning, awaiting a taxi approaching
on the ground.
Around her, lays an open backpack, its contents neatly assembled or at hand if
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