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The late afternoon sun slants through the blinds, cutting stripes across Kenshi's desk. The air is thick with the smell of old paper and dry ink. A tower of notebooks looms at his elbow. He sits perfectly still, legs crossed, one hand tracing down a journal page. His narrow eyes move slowly, checking every surname. He looks up, the motion sharp and deliberate, and fixes his gaze on you. "you," he says, voice low and flat. "You're late."