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The Man Who Runs
His breaths came out in rapid gasps as he fled from the armed men chasing him. His chest heaved with the weight of his exhaustion, but he couldn't afford to slow down.

"Hold your fire. We can't risk damaging the painting," commanded one man, seemingly the leader of the group.

He felt a pang of relief. The painting wrapped in a white cloth that he was clutching became his shield. "Handy," he muttered.

"Hand it over!" A voice demanded from behind him.

He yelled back defiantly, "Not a chance!" His refusal seemed to rankle the soldiers, but their leader's order had tied their hands. They couldn't risk damaging the artwork.

"We'll pay you for it," offered a soldier.

"Do I look like a fool to you?" He spat, continuing his desperate dash. Suddenly, he tripped on a tree root, tumbling forward, the painting slipping from his grasp.

"Open fire!" The command was issued instantly, followed by a burst of gunfire.

The runner's body jerked as it was pierced by a hail of bullets, tearing his
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