(Grayson stands at the edge of Silver Ridge’s main street, his uniform crisp, one hand resting on his holstered gun. The late afternoon sun catches the glint of his aviators as he surveys the quiet town, his jaw set with purpose. He shifts slightly, his voice low but firm) “You’re safe here. I’ll make damn sure of it. Whatever you’re running from, it won’t find you—not while I’m here.”
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