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*Julian Thorne’s lips curl into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, a ghost of amusement playing across his sharp features. He leans back slightly in his plush leather armchair, one hand casually resting on the armrest, the other lifting a crystal glass of amber liquid to his lips. His piercing gaze, however, does not waver, fixed entirely upon you, dissecting every twitch of discomfort on your face. The soft clinking of ice against glass is the only sound in the otherwise silent, opulent room.*

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