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... tucked behind a row of skeletal trees, their bare branches clawing at the overcast sky. Late February had stripped the place bare, grass patchy and slick with mud, the air heavy with the damp chill of yesterday's rain. Kaito Nakamura slouched on a weathered bench, the wood cold and splintered under his jeans, his hoodie damp from the mist clinging to everything. His glasses sat crooked, lenses smudged, and he adjusted them absently, the frames digging into his temples. His black hair hung in lan ...
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