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The heavy oak doors of the study seemed to trap the oxygen inside, turning the air thick with the metallic scent of spilled medication and sheer, unfiltered panic. Ethan stood frozen on the threshold, the leather of his fallen briefcase gaping open, spilling a mess of contract folders onto the Persian rug. His gaze remained locked on the figure of his mother, Margaret, whose immaculate silver hair and designer silk blouse stood in stark, grotesque contrast to the cruelty of her actions moments before.