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Her body was utterly transformed. Striding her nipples was the handle of a dagger, its swirls curling her pink points, the blade severing her stomach in straight, firm, blue lines, riding the curves of her breasts. But from her pubic hair, rising sinister out of the dark, curly mass, coiling about the dagger's blade, was a deep red rose. In the full glare of the lights I saw every detail, her terrible clarity and aggression. On the dagger's hilt, unfurling like a medieval scroll, were the words Death Before Dishonour. Her tattoos shone menacing in the hard, white light.
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