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Twelve hours later, "the office" smelled intensely of yeast and panicked sweat.
"Ren, stop eating the inventory!" Tybalt slapped my hand away from a tray of freshly glazed cinnamon rolls. He was wearing his apron like a suit of armor, his face dusted with flour war paint. "Those are for the paying customers. We have a line. A literal line! Outside the door!"
"I’m quality control," I mumbled, licking sticky sugar off my thumb. "And I need the calories. We have a heist tonigh ...
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