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... at behind the wheel of his matte-black McLaren, one hand resting on the gearshift, the other still clenched from the message he’d just read.

Happy birthday, Theo. Hope you’re well.

Short. Thoughtless. Probably sent out of obligation. But still, it landed like a blade between his ribs.

He hadn’t celebrated his birthday in ten years.

Not since he was nineteen.

Not since that day.

A horn snapped him back to the present. He blinked, saw the green light ...

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