The next morning came with a heavy silence. The streets outside the Hamilton mansion were still, and the sunlight broke through the windows like a quiet blessing. Inside the house, there was a calmness, a strange peace that hadn’t been felt in years. After everything, the fights, the pain, the losses, it almost felt unreal.Meanwhile, at the police headquarters, Noah Smith sat in a holding cell. His wrists were cuffed tightly, red from the steel digging into his skin. He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask for a lawyer. He just sat there, still as stone, eyes fixed on the white wall in front of him. His hair was disheveled, his face pale, and the burns on the side of his neck and hand were bandaged, but they stung with every breath.The officers didn’t look at him with pity. They looked at him like a ghost finally caught. Some even whispered that this man had cheated death, burned in an explosion, vanished for years, and returned wearing another face. Now, he was just a man: broken, exhausted
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