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Chapter 44: Praise to the Meaningless
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Chapter 46: A Hidden Marksman
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... with it the distant sounds of the sleeping city.
Inside, the only light came from a single green-shaded desk lamp, casting a warm pool of illumination on the parchment below.
A young man with unruly black hair and a sharp, cold glint in his eyes was writing furiously with a fountain pen, the scratch of its nib a steady rhythm in the quiet room.
Despite there being a mechanical typewriter sitting unused beside him, he preferred the deliberate, personal connection of ink o ...
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