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There were people capable of being seen and then there was Parisa, who would only ever be looked at.
Maybe the only thing Atlas Blakely had ever really done was tell a despicable truth.
She killed him, obviously. Don’t play with matches. Don’t startle physicists who’ve traveled here on a fucking nuclear bomb.
The man on the security monitor wore an ostentatious pair of aviator sunglasses—loud, chromatic, and expensive, a sartorial statement that appeared to begin and end with fuck you.
