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It was a part of him, the coiling shape trailing up his vein. He supposed he should be used to it now, after all, he was used to hiding it. But every time he woke and saw the black ink marking his flesh, and remembered all it meant, all it had done, he hated it. He knew he should have it removed, but he was scared that he would lose part of himself with it. The children did always joke that he was a walking book, and ink was half of what made a book.