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31.12.2025, 12:54
Alavi, sitting in the deep armchair of a private business jet flying across the Pacific toward Boston, was not sleeping. He swirled a glass of stolen 1985 French cognac in his fingers and looked into the black window, which reflected his own face—old and tired. He wasn’t thinking about the missile. Or the saved world. He was thinking about whether he would recognize Zeynab tomorrow or not. After all, they say that children who outplay their parents in the art of survival have their eye color change. They become the color of ash
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