JulianAt twenty past ten, the event was moving toward its natural second-act dispersal, the room thinning at the edges while the core consolidated. Alastor had drawn me into a conversation with two legitimate business affiliates, actual corporate entities, the kind that appeared in public financial filings, when the sound happened.Outside.A single, sharp crack.Automotive. Backfire, exhaust, mechanical rather than ballistic. Fifty feet from the building at most, muffled by walls and glass but present, penetrating, the frequency that my nervous system had been cataloguing since I was eight years old in the apartment above the laundromat where the walls were thin.My body didn't ask my brain.It simply stopped.The room continued around me: conversation, movement, the ambient social machinery of Cavendish operating at its regular register, and I was standing inside it with a wine glass in my hand and no access to the present tense, which had been replaced entirely by the specific, co
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