POV: ZiaThe smell of Tony’s Deli hit me like a physical blow. It was the scent of my childhood—salty provolone, cured meats, and the sharp, vinegary bite of peppers. It was a sensory overload that threatened to trigger a Reset, but I gripped the handle of the silver sedan's door and forced myself to stay in the present."Stay sharp, Z," Clayton whispered. He was wearing a dark hoodie, his eyes constantly scanning the street. "I don't like this. It’s too exposed.""It’s the only way," I said.We stepped inside. The bell above the door jingled—a sound I hadn't heard in eight years. Tony, the owner, was behind the counter, slicing ham. He looked up, his eyes widening as they landed on me. He didn't say a word; he just jerked his head toward the back booth, hidden behind a tall display of potato chips.There, sitting with a cup of black coffee, was Arthur Vance.He looked older. His hair was a stark, snowy white, and the lines around his eyes were deeper, but when he looked up, that famil
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