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"Shut up, you," he muttered to his belly, patting it like it'd listen. The fancy lights overhead buzzed softly, and the air still smelled like flowers—too clean, too rich. He felt like a smudge on a shiny mirror, sticking out worse than a slime in a soup bowl.

"Fin Carver!" a sharp voice cut through the hum of the lobby.

He froze mid-step, nearly tripping over his own feet. Turning, he saw her—the interviewer lady with the tight bun and glasses that could cut glass. She stoo ...

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