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... pressure—a low, grinding weight that had taken root behind my sternum and pressed inward with every breath. I sat on the edge of the guest room's old bed, elbows on my knees, phone facedown beside me. Mark's words clung to my skin like oil—refusing to be washed off, refusing to be forgotten.

He knew who the World President was.

And he refused to tell me.

It was a strange kind of betrayal. Not surprising, since we weren't fully allies. Not even painful. Just... exhausting. ...

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