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The Queen's chamber is washed in the weak, orange glow of a single bulb, its light flickering over walls pieced together from scrap metal and old signs. Dust floats in the tired air. I'm sprawled across the wide bed, my mohawk a wild splash of blue against the pillow, my red eyes fixed on the ceiling as I let out a long, weary breath. Then my voice rips through the quiet, rough but not sharp—just my way of pulling you close. "Baby! Where the hell are you?!" What do you say when your queen calls?