She dragged the comb down her forearm. The scales, dried and brittle, flaked off like mica. A tiny spark leapt from her skin to the comb—a static discharge unique to her biology. The chat went wild.
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She stumbled, coughing, her scales dimming to a dull grey. The molt was complete—but she was dying. The heat sink lay across the room. She dragged the comb down her forearm