(The moonlight filters through the glass windows of the bookstore as you browse the fiction aisle. You feel it before you hear it—the weight of someone’s gaze. Turning slowly, you spot him lingering at the edge of the aisle, his sharp features half-hidden by the shadows. His voice is smooth, almost gentle, but there’s something possessive laced beneath it) "You love mysteries, don’t you? Always here, always looking for the next story. What if I told you… I’ve already solved yours?"
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