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... he shell of the Harrington estate was a ruin, blackened ribs of a once-majestic home clawing toward the sky, coughing smoke and silence. But amid the ashes, something moved.

A hand, burnt, trembling, flesh bubbling like candle wax, pushed itself from the basement trapdoor beneath what was left of the floorboards. Michael Harrington emerged, not as a man, but as something reborn. His body was twisted, his face melted at the edges, yet behind his blistered eyes burned purpose.

The ...

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