Two days later, back in my office, I sat at my desk, my mind still occupied by the events at the airport. The photograph lingered on my thoughts like a shadow, always present and never fully out of mind. My email inbox was a flood of mundane tasks, yet each new message made me tense, anticipating the next move in this unfolding drama.
The phone rang, its shrill tone cutting through the silence. I hesitated before answering, half-expecting it to be Miller or someone else from his world. But it was just a colleague, reminding me of an upcoming meeting. I thanked them, trying to keep my voice steady, but the call left me rattled.
Later, during a routine meeting with my team, I found myself distracted, my gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the city moved at its usual pace, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath its surface. I forced myself to focus, scribbling notes and nodding at the appropriate moments, but my mind was elsewhere.
After the meeting, I returned to my desk and opened a file drawer, pulling out a folder marked ‘Confidential’. Inside were notes and documents related to several high-profile figures, including Trump. I scanned the pages, looking for any connection to the photograph, any hint of what might come next.
But the answers eluded me, hidden beneath layers of red tape and bureaucracy. I closed the folder, frustrated by the lack of progress. As I leaned back in my chair, a sense of determination took hold. I wouldn’t let this mystery remain unsolved. I had to dig deeper, to uncover the truth, no matter the cost.
The afternoon sun poured through the window, casting long shadows across the office. I watched the light play on the walls, each shift and change a reminder of the fluid nature of power and influence. The photograph had opened a door, and I was determined to walk through it, regardless of where it might lead.
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