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Plop. Plop. The footsteps of an oligarch.
Closer. My victim wandered to the dark.
I stabbed him dead; his gut flowed red, staining the white wall.
Twice buzzed my phone; I stood alone, answering the call.
Then the voice came, “They look the same, but he’s not your mark.”
I learned about this week's contest through the main post.
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