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... her sofa, its cracked surface creaking faintly under him. His head hung low, fingers clawing into his knees—knuckles white, veins bulging as if they'd burst through his skin. His mind was a maelstrom—thoughts crashing like thunder, shredding each other in a desperate scramble for answers.

Renzo doesn't hate me. The certainty blazed—fierce, unyielding, a lifeline in the chaos.

But then... why?

Why had Renzo spent years cru ...

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