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What they threw at him came in a 265-kilobyte-per-second stream of HEVC-encoded dread. The file was small. The consequences were not.

Tariq picked it up. The file was already downloaded.

“Breathing. Not incarcerated. Still in possession of all major organs.”

Meanwhile, at Stansfield University, the chess pieces were resetting. Effie smiled at Tariq in the library like she hadn’t almost let him drown in a shipping container. Cane Tejada circled the campus like a shark who’d learned how to wear a blazer. And Lauren — sweet, brilliant, dead-eyed Lauren — stared at Tariq from across the quad as if he were a ghost himself.

But he wasn’t. Because that night, Monet Tejada summoned him to the back room of Truth — the nightclub that used to be his father’s kingdom, now a tomb with a light show.

“Word on the street,” Monet said, swirling a glass of red wine that looked like old blood, “is that someone’s got a new tape. And that someone might be connected to my son’s murder.”

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