Anton’s 24 hours stretched into 48, then 72. The waiting was its own special torture. The video clip, the violation, replayed in my mind at odd moments—when I was making coffee, or staring at a spreadsheet. It left a stain. The apartment, our new fortress, no longer felt completely secure. I’d find myself glancing at the corners of the room, at the smoke detector, a new, paranoid habit.Lorenzo channeled the tension into a cold, relentless focus. He pushed forward on our residency application, assembling documents with the precision of a military campaign. He followed up with existing clients, networked with Matteo’s contacts. He was a rock. But I could see the strain in the tightness of his jaw, the extra stillness of his posture. The storm was contained, but it was building.On the fourth day, Anton returned. He arrived at dawn, carrying a slim folder. He looked tired, but his eyes were alert.“The house,” he said, without preamble, spreading photos on our dining table. They were of
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