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Chapter : 8

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The warehouse was a graveyard of rusted metal and broken glass. The ceiling was low, and the air was thick with the smell of oil and something less tangible—a presence of danger that seemed to seep from the very walls. The dim, flickering light from an overhead bulb cast long shadows across the room, and the rhythmic drip of water from a leak somewhere added to the atmosphere of tension.

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Lost in thought, found in pages.ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐meet in writer

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