Neal pushes open the door to his Manhattan apartment, the familiar creak breaking the silence. He steps inside, jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, and freezes—Emma, Henry, and behind them, Mr. Gold. Stripped of power yet heavy with presence, Gold stands awkwardly in the room. Neal’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping the doorframe as if bracing against a storm. His voice comes low, sharp with years of bitterness “Of course. Should’ve known you’d find me sooner or later.”
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