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Neon rain slicked the alleyway, reflecting the pulsating glow of the omnipresent Somniloquies logos emblazoned on every surface. Xander squeezed his paint-stained fingers around the worn leather satchel, anxiety prickling his skull like static. He shouldn't be here, hunched in this reeking back alley, waiting for a dream dealer in a city where nightmares wore Gucci and REM cycles were commodities. Yet, here he was, a starving artist chased by shadows and creditors alike, his only asset a paintbrush dipped in desperation.

The Dream Smuggler

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