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... across his face like it was in on the joke.

Grey London stretched around him — quiet, sharp-edged, cold in that distinct late October way that sank under the skin.

He didn’t care.

Hoodie drawn tight, headphones in but nothing playing.

He ran in silence.

No paparazzi.

No long stares.

Just Izan, the pavement, and whatever storm kept spinning in his chest.

His feet pounded out a rhythm — steady, familiar.

Until the street betr ...

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