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... the night like a whip. My sneakers screeched against wet pavement as I spun, lungs burning, fear burning hotter.

The figure tugged at the edge of their mask, fingers frantic, like tearing off their own skin. And then—

Oh God.

Not a stranger.

The face beneath was not what I expected. Not some alleyway creep with a knife. Or a kidnapper.

It’s Sandra.

Sandra from the front desk. Sandra, with her migraine-bright blouses and laugh that could double as ...

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