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Summary
Shane is having a bad evening. The whole week had been shit, actually. But being in an extremely public place with hundreds of people chattering and most of them touching or talking to him and the lights and his sock is weird and no, I don't want a tray of fried hors d'ouvres or a third glass of champagne-- well.
A storm is brewing. And only David and apparently Ilya Rozanov of all people can see what's coming.
