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The sterile light of dawn cast a harsh glare across the opulent room. Camila, a vision in emerald silk against the crisp white sheets, stirred beside me. Her eyes fluttered open, seeking mine, and a smile, hopeful and vulnerable, graced her lips.

"Good morning," she murmured, her voice husky with sleep.

Before she could speak further, I rose from the bed, the expensive sheets whispering against my bare skin. The act felt symbolic, a shedding of the night's temporary escape and a return to the reality I'd so desperately tried to outrun.

I pulled on my discarded suit, the fabric cool against my heated skin. Each button fastened was a note in a discordant melody – the melody of self-preservation, of playing the game by its own harsh rules.

Camila, now fully awake, sat up, concerned etching lines on her previously carefree face. "Ben," she said, her voice laced with a newfound urgency. "Where are you going?"

I turned to face her, the cynical smile, a twisted mask for the emptiness with
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