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FACTORY by Amélie Pimont

She woke up in agonizing pain, her body uncontrollably shivering, and her nerves were paralyzed from exposure. She struggled to collect her thoughts; images raced through her mind, unable to differentiate whether she was awake or in a horror show. Unaware of who she was, where she was, or how she got there, disoriented, the fog started to lift. She struggled to open her eyes and tried to reach for her wrist, which was pulsing with pain, but couldn't. Her arms and legs were bound to cold metal, splayed like that of a pig, about to be butchered. Through blurry eyes, she could finally see the origin of the deep throb from her wrist; there, she saw the number 36752 burnt into her skin in raw, red flesh. She exhaled a shaky breath; it billowed, turning to vapor in the frigid room. Her eyes trailed over her goose-fleshed skin, her exposed breasts taut and pointed, left her ill at ease. Every inch of her skin was exposed, her numb body tied to a metal bed.

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