A swift exit
When the hospital clock struck half past five, Emma was already out of her scrubs. Gloves discarded, jacket folded neatly over her arm, she rushed for the exit. Automatic doors slid open, spilling her into the evening air. Her pace quickened as she darted to her car. The tattoo was still haunting her thoughts, hammering relentlessly. Only one line repeated in her head with growing urgency: I know where to look. I know exactly where.
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