“Alright, Marcus,” I said, my voice a low, tired hum. I hung up the phone, the sound of the dial tone a hollow, empty buzz in the quiet apartment. My body felt heavy and a little sore, a lingering ache from the wild, passionate night with Emily. The bedroom was a scattered mess, the sheets tangled on the bed, my clothes a heap on the floor, a stark and unsettling contrast to the cold, brutal reality I had to face. The memory of Emily, so recent and so real, felt like a hazy, beautiful dream.I hurried to get dressed, pulling on my pants and shirt with frantic, clumsy movements. My fingers fumbled with the buttons of my shirt, my mind already on the email Marcus had sent. I didn’t care that my hair was a wild mess or that my shirt was wrinkled. All that mattered was the video, the proof, the next piece of the puzzle that would finally bring down Norman Malcovich.I moved to my laptop, my fingers flying over the keys. The screen came to life, a bright, glowing rectangle in the dim light
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