Mr. Henderson asked to see the watch immediately. When I arrived at his office, he examined it with a care that felt almost reverent, then pressed a nearly invisible notch along the side. The back popped open with a soft click. Inside was a folded strip of paper, brittle with age yet unmistakably in my father’s handwriting. It wasn’t a sentimental note. It was a set of coordinates, a bank name, and a numbered account, followed by one chilling line: “For Ashton, when everyone else shows their true face.”
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