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... eiling painted in soft cream with golden trim that screamed old money and aristocratic taste, nothing like the plain white of his London apartment.
His body felt wrong, lighter somehow but also heavier in different places, and when he sat up with a groan that didn’t sound quite like his own voice, the room spun for a moment before settling into sharp focus that was far too clear for someone who’d worn glasses since age twelve.
"What the hell," he muttered while swinging his legs ...
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