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He's dead

Harald

I drove through the dark, deserted streets, the silence only interrupted by the low purr of the car engine. The city seemed asleep, as if the world had taken a brief rest after the chaotic events of that night at the Morton mansion. Streetlights intermittently illuminated the road in front of me, creating shadows that danced across the asphalt, but my mind was far away, lost in the events of the Christmas dinner I had just witnessed. It had been a night I would never forget, and the emotional impact of it reverberated inside me like a bomb ready to explode.

I had finally done the unthinkable: rebelled against my father. For the first time in years, I found myself breaking the invisible chain that bound me to Charles Morton's tyranny. I still couldn't believe what I had done. I felt a visceral fear coursing through my veins—the kind of fear that paralyzed me and made me question every decision. But at the same time, a wave of relief washed over me. It was a strange relief, like
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