Heart. Lungs. Liver. Nerves. As The Nightmare neared, her face covered in chipped porcelain and her presence like shrill static, these four words became a chant. The Paranoid–one of the many personas inhabiting the hero’s too-full head–was the one uttering it, a reminder to the other voices in this malformed vessel that it was now up to them to perform what were once autonomous functions. Heart. Lungs. Liver. Nerves. The words were a pulse;…
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