Night fell over the Brooklyn waterfront, bringing a quiet stillness that felt almost surreal after days of relentless legal warfare. The safehouse was quiet; the federal marshals maintained their perimeter outside in the courtyard, their silhouettes sharp against the sodium vapor lamps. In the small kitchen of the loft, Maya leaned against the counter, holding a warm mug of peppermint tea between both hands. The emotional exhaustion of the past…
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