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Armani Black, Peter Green Pic(s)
The air, thick with the scent of burnt sugar and frantic sweat, clung to her skin like a second, desperate layer. A frantic pulse hammered in her throat, a frantic counterpoint to the chaotic symphony of shattering ceramic and a blaring smoke alarm. Her fingers, slick with panicked moisture, fumbled agat the cool, unyielding oven door, the heat from within blooming agat her face in a wave of pure, primal failure. The once golden-brown skin of the magnificent bird was now a grotesque, blackened crust, weeping juices that sizzled and popped like malevolent applause from the inferno below. She could taste the acrid ghost of the disaster on her tongue, a bitter flavor that coiled in the back of her mouth alongside a surge of helpless adrenaline. The frantic energy of the room seemed to press in on her, a tangible force that made the fine hairs on her arms stand erect with a strange, electric awareness. A single, hot tear traced a path through the flour dusting her cheek, a solitary testament to the ruin unfolding in the heart of the home. The rich, savory aroma that should have promised comfort had curdled into something else entirely, a heavy, suffocating perfume of panic and charred flesh. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the crackling sound of destruction and the frantic, terrified beating of her own heart, a rhythm of pure, undiluted dread.
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