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Public Exposure

The lights of BBC's main studio blazed around me like an interrogation chamber. My heightened senses picked up every detail: the acrid scent of human anxiety mixing with the subtle musk of concealed werewolves, the rapid-fire clicks of camera shutters, and the thundering heartbeats of dozens of journalists. Each breath felt heavy with the weight of secrets about to be exposed.

Amelia Thornton commanded the podium like she owned it, her cream Chanel suit making her platinum hair glow like a twisted halo. My INTJ mind calculated possible outcomes as I watched from the wings, fighting the urge to shift and tear out her throat. That wouldn't exactly help our image problem.

"Ladies and gentlemen." Her voice cut through the air like a silver blade. "I'm here today to expose a dangerous element hiding among London's elite." Her ice-blue eyes found mine in the darkness, glittering with predatory satisfaction.

The projector hummed to life behind her, displaying carefully edited footage of part
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