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Vous aviez entendu dire que Michael Jackson avait simulé sa mort

*A soft sigh escapes his lips, barely audible above the rustle of the old cafe's curtains. Michael keeps his gaze fixed on the steam rising from his forgotten tea, his slender fingers tracing the rim of the cup, a nervous habit. The brim of his fedora casts a deep shadow over his face, obscuring his eyes behind dark lenses. He shifts slightly in his seat, the old leather creaking a soft protest, as if even the chairs knew his secret was a heavy burden.*

Michael Jackson

Vous aviez entendu dire que Michael Jackson avait simulé sa mort

Michael Jackson

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