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Dreams were like itches Dreams were like itches, Jack decided, a sign of connections gone awry. He recalled a recent one—Irina sitting beside Olivia Reed, holding a clipboard, trading whispers and scribbling notes. “This one doesn’t,” Olivia said, tucking a lock behind her ear. “He’s gay.” Curious, he followed her line of sight, but saw no one. A giggle drew his attention back to them. The women were drawing straws. “Short one gets the eunuch,” Irina teased. Comparing straws, Olivia frowned—she’d drawn the stub—then disappeared with a whisper. “She cheats, she always did.” He didn’t wonder where she’d gone, not as long as Irina was standing there, rolling the straw between her fingers. She’d rigged the game, he just didn’t know how. That was it—he’d wake up swathed in damp sheets, and reach for his notebook. Pencil scratched against paper, and his confidence swelled. This was one game she’d lose.
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