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His hands were cold, but soft.

They lay limp on a wooden table as the red liquid of life dripped though his fingers. The stars above, like sparkles, twinkled in an orange hope, gazing down on his forlorn head. His pale white face, like the light of day, absorbed their light. With a great zealousness and the dark eyes of night, a man walked around him with slow, heavy footsteps. A muscular hand grasped the end of a dull blade, shiny with dots of scarlet blood. His dirty face spread into a grin as his hand began to lift above his head. With a touch of gold, and one last breath of air, the victim swung his broken fists, a silent attempt to save his soul. The captor would not break. Soon, his squid ink mixed with the seas of glowing red. The victims heart beat with a rapid fury, but he paused as he stole a glance at his captors calm countenance. His fingers began to shake. The black smile of death was a reflection of his own face, but contorted to an expression of despair. His hands dropped. He lost, for no one can beat their inner selves.