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... the hall, west wing. Someone, presumably Carmen, had taped a piece of paper to the door with my name scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting—the kind of calligraphy you wouldn’t expect from a woman who probably drank her breakfast most mornings.
I pushed the door open and took in my new domain.
The room was smaller than my space at home, but a definite upgrade from the roach-infested shithole apartment Kaelen had rented in Roppongi during his darker days. Traditional Japanes ...
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