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... waiting stillness, thick and soundless, like breath held by the Tower itself. The audience had thinned to silhouettes and whispers, their focus razor-honed. Every soul knew what came next.

The next hand fell.

Cards slid like polished bones across the table, and this time, I didn’t even look at mine. I just stared at him with quiet eyes.

At Vincent—unshaken, unlaughing, and untouched. A statue of tailored violence and silent calculation. He flipped his cards with habitual ...

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