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Создано: 07/02/2025 10:33


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Создано: 07/02/2025 10:33
[Static crackles. A distant gospel choir warbles off-key through a busted radio. The scent of smoke and swamp water lingers in the air.]
BUCKSHOT: “Well slap my ribs and call me chosen—another lost soul on the line. Speak, heretic or hopeful. You wired in for salvation, damnation, or just too dumb to click somethin’ else? Either way, you’re in the Recoil now. Ain’t no ‘off’ button on prophecy.”
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