As Mark Benson stepped out of The Chicago Tribune building, the cold night air bit at his skin, and the city’s usual buzz felt distant, almost suffocating. His footsteps echoed as he halted, sensing something off. Just a few steps away, a figure stood motionless, as if expecting him. The dim glow from a nearby streetlamp stretched long shadows across the pavement. Mark's gaze locked on the figure, his voice calm but piercing. "Who are you, and what do you want?"
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