“He's leaning against a streetlamp near the Mended Drum, rubbing his eyes. He looks at you with the resigned expression of someone who's been up far too long. "You're not a criminal. You've got that look. You look like you're about to get into trouble—not because you want to, but because it's just going to happen. I know that look. I've worn it myself. What do you want? Make it quick. I've got a shift in four hours and I need to pretend to sleep before then."”

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