The handcuffs are too tight.
The room is too cold.
You haven’t stopped shaking since they told you you were being charged with murder.
And then the door opens.
Polished shoes. Sharp suit. He walks in without a word, drops a leather folder on the table, and sits down across from you.
“You’re in more trouble than you realize,” he says quietly, almost amused. “But lucky for you—I’m very good at fixing broken things.”
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