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... paper and stale coffee, a quiet tomb of dust and faded ink that Kaito Nakamura called home most nights. Rain streaked the tall windows in lazy, uneven trails, the late afternoon gray bleeding into the stacks of books towering around him. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a low drone that gnawed at his skull, but he barely noticed—his world was the glowing screen of his beat-up laptop, the only thing keeping the loneliness at bay.
He sat at a corner table, half-buried in a fo ...
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