He was standing on a snowy hillside at midnight. He could feel the phantom cold on his cheeks. He could smell the metallic tang of gunpowder and the crisp bite of frost. The camera—some impossibly steady phantom drone—panned left. A Japanese maple, its bare branches laced with fresh snow, stood in the foreground. The contrast was obscene: the fragile, 8-bit softness of the snowflake's white against the 10-bit, billion-color detonation behind it.
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